


Children and Other Wild Animals

by Virginia_Tradescant



Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Additional smutty tags to be added, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternative Universe - FBI, Author is a WIP, Ben Solo Has Issues, Ben Solo Has a Dirty Mouth, Ben Solo Needs A Hug, Cute Kids, Eventual Smut, F/M, FBI Agent Ben Solo, Fluff and Angst, Gun Violence, HEA, Implied/Referenced Murder, Jealous Ben Solo, Kindergarten Cop vibes, Kylo Ren is Not Nice, No Babies, No Pregnancy, Poorly researched and self-indulgent, Possessive Ben Solo, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rey Has Issues (Star Wars), Rey Palpatine but make it better, Reylo - Freeform, Seriously when Kylo Ren shows up he is not a Good Dude (TM), Slow Burn, Soft Ben Solo, Strangers to Lovers, Teacher Rey (Star Wars), Tropes, Undercover Ben Solo, Yes she teaches kids but, mafia, rated e for
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-28
Updated: 2021-03-13
Packaged: 2021-03-19 07:33:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 28,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29747109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Virginia_Tradescant/pseuds/Virginia_Tradescant
Summary: “Solo, think about it from my perspective. You want to be director of a field office one day, right? What would you do? Put a green agent with insufficient clearance on protection duty for a high value target? All because a more senior and experienced agent hates kids?!”“Sir, with all due respect, I don’t hate kids”—actually, he’s pretty sure he does—“but I don’t think I’m the right fit for this job. Would you believe me as a preschool aide?”After a harrowing undercover assignment, FBI agent Ben Solo decides to take on an “easy” witness protection case that turns out to be anything but.Inspired by the timeless romantic classic, Kindergarten Cop.With some Witness. And a heavy dash of Bodyguard. You’re welcome.
Relationships: Kylo Ren/Rey, Rey/Ben Solo, Rey/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren
Comments: 76
Kudos: 169





	1. Chapter 1

“Solo—“

“No.” 

Ben Solo doesn’t even look up when the thick file lands with a loud smack against the metal of his too small, too cramped, office desk. She’s only adding one more thing to the growing pile of cases he’ll continue to strategically ignore. He purses his lips and keeps his pen on the stack of surveillance reports in front of him. 

“It’s _easy_.” 

He looks up through his eyelashes at the statuesque woman with tightly trimmed platinum blonde hair. She’s nearly as tall as he is, and there’s not enough space for her, the desk, and him in the closet that they generously call his office. 

Hand on her hip, she gives him an annoyed look. She’s dressed in a standard uniform, the one Ben hasn’t worn since Quantico: the usual tight-buttoned white shirt and shoulder holster, blue jacket with big yellow letters, barcode badge clipped to her belt. Must have just gotten off duty, but that doesn’t excuse it. Whining and begging never go over well with him, and she knows better. 

She points at the file she dropped with the other hand. “It’s witpro. Ackbar set this one up.”

“It’s August fifteenth, Phasma. Still on leave, remember?”

“Yeah, but I’m asking as a personal favor.” Her voice is lifting in a slight plea, and he only digs in harder, despite a little nag of guilt in his chest. He did owe her a little. Well, a lot. 

“It’s still no.” He goes back to his form, trying to find where he left off. “I’ll watch your dog at Christmas,” he offers in return. 

“You wouldn’t even be lead agent on this one; you’d be support. ”

Ben grunts. “I don’t do witness protection.” Not anymore at least. Not since he joined the undercover unit. 

“Not even for a member of the Palpatine family?” 

He looks up again over the edge of his nose. The corners of her lips turn up at grabbing his attention, and she stares hard at him with a slight nod of her head. 

He frowns and looks back down. “Don’t try that on me.”

“You know you want to. Don’t make me do a field op with Wexley again. Fucker snores like you wouldn’t believe.”

Flipping the page over the stapled corner, he ignores her and fills in a blank line with the messy scrawl that passes as the signature of the name he had to relearn to write. “I’ve had enough of the Palpatine family for a lifetime.” 

There was nothing he was more certain about. He could go his whole life without ever laying eyes on another cog of the Palpatine machine, and he’d die happy. “And anyway, it’s just witpro. Pick anyone else who’s not Wexley.”

She bites her lip a little and flips her short blonde hair. “Yeah about that…”

Ben blows out a hard sigh and rubs his forehead. He should have known better when she walked into _his_ office with the file. “It’s not _just_ wit pro, is it?”

She cringes. 

“Fuck.” Leaning back in his chair, he shakes his head, more frustrated with himself than her. “Okay, I will entertain this”—he holds up a finger when she starts to smile—“for _exactly_ one hundred fifty seconds.” 

“ _Fine_. This is a direct assignment from Ackbar. The classification level alone rules out most of the agents in this office. It’s his granddaughter—“

“Ackbar’s granddaughter?”

“No, asshole. Don’t be intentionally dense. _Sheev’s_ granddaughter.”

“Sheev doesn’t have a granddaughter.”

“Yeah we didn’t think so either. But apparently he did, or at least he _thinks_ he did, and when he died last month, he bequeathed a bunch of shit to this girl in Exegol. Obviously—“

“The rest of the minions showed up to lay claim. How is she still alive?”

“Clever girl apparently. Kept them busy fighting over some minor shit and slipped out the back of her house. Drove across two states before she stopped and found a field office.”

Ben arched an eyebrow. It _was_ clever. The Exegol police department had loyalists in it that would have turned on her. _He_ had driven across two states to get away from that crime empire, too.

“Anyway, after a couple weeks of debriefing and intelligence, they passed her on to central, and _voila_ now she’s in our lap in a safe house.”

He scratches at his jaw, a rough stubble coming in that he needs to shave. It should be a pretty simple case. They could easily set her up in witpro—use the battered women’s shelter, one of the many cover businesses their field office was running. She could have a new identity and independence by now—they worked fast when they wanted to. So why was she still in a safe house? 

“You haven’t addressed the other assignment. The non witpro assignment.”

“Getting there—“

“You better. You’ve only got about thirty seconds.”

“I hate you sometimes.” She narrows her eyes and shakes her head, lips stern.

Ben just taps his pen on his papers and raises his brows in expectation. 

Phasma rolls her eyes. “ _Fine_. It’s really a sting op. They want to use her as bait. To lure out the last members and bring it all down. Try and get them on an abduction, attempted murder, witness tampering, intimidation, stalking, _anything_. They just need enough to justify a few search warrants. And more importantly…”—she lowers her voice—“ID some dirty agents while we’re at it.” She looks intently at Ben.

“That is _ludicrous_.” He blows out an astonished breath. _Dangerous_. _A batshit insane plan. What woman in her right mind—_

“She’s already agreed.” Phasma smiles now, giddy with that early thrill of a new operation and all its potential.

So this girl is clever _and_ brave. 

Or fucking suicidal. 

He presses his lips tightly. _Dirty agents?_ A roiling heat turns in his stomach. 

“What makes Ackbar suspect a dirty agent?” He already knows the answer.

“I assume he’s told you.”

“He has, but I want to know what _you_ know.”

“Your dead witnesses,” she answers bluntly with a smack of her lips.

He takes a deep breath and exhales. It was only two—only two of the witnesses he’d handed to the FBI under the guise of carrying out a hit for Palpatine. But it was two _too many_ turning up dead in protective custody.

“And yet you’re standing in front of _me_ asking for a favor?” He wonders just how many cameras he’d find in his condo. How many trackers are in his car?

“We know you’re clean.” She answers matter-of-factly. 

_At least a few cameras and trackers then._ He needs to sweep his place. Or masturbate in his living room just to piss them off. He looks back at his forms. “It’s still no. You don’t need me.” 

“What!? Yes I do. Ackbar said I could pick anyone with the clearance. You’re the _obvious_ choice.”

“Yeah, and that’s why I don’t want to.” He doesn’t look up at her. He _can’t_ and feels the heat of shame flare around his neck. 

Her voice is quiet, gentle and coaxing, and it grates him a little. “Look, you’d just be doing the surveillance. Interior and perimeter. Night shift work. All the tech stuff you love. Will get you ready for your next position. You’re still moving over to surveillance right?”

He works his jaw back and forth. It wasn’t the _worst_ idea. Those skills were rusty, and he could use something low key that would get him out of the office. Something that would get him ready to move forward. 

“ _And_ ,” she continues, acting quickly on the consideration she senses, “I can pick your brain on the Palpatine empire. Would help me with my next assignments.”

He looks up at her abruptly, meeting her blue eyes. “You’re not taking on—“

She shrugs. “If this op doesn’t bring down the house of cards, then—“

“Gwen, _no_.” 

Her eyebrows shoot up in surprise at the sound of her first name, but she recovers quickly. 

“That’s not for you to decide.” She swishes her head in umbrage and tightens her mouth at him.

“You _know_ how bad Operation Finalizer got. Those are intense assignments. They’re not...” He presses his lips as he feels his ribs constrict and stomach swoop, the familiar turmoil of rage, fear, and shame filling his chest. “Not for everyone.” He swallows. 

She looks at the floor a moment and nods. “I know. I know the toll it took.” She looks back and meets his eyes, but he looks away again, feeling the flush of embarrassment across his neck. 

She clears her throat when he doesn’t speak, doesn’t offer any more words, because _what is there to say about how he almost lost himself undercover?_

“But,” she continues, “ _th_ _is_ case is a way to test the waters for me. It’s an easy assignment. Ackbar got her set up as a pre-k teacher at the STEAM school. Some convenient retirement and he knows the principal. My cover is an aide position in her classroom. We’re just the surveillance and protection team until the empire initiates contact or until we hear relevant chatter. Then we pass her over to the tactical unit.”

He presses his lips as he considers her for a long moment. 

“Why do you need to be in the classroom?” Ben cringes slightly as he asks. He does _not_ like children and the feeling is mutual. He has the sort of face, the sort of look about him, that makes babies cry in the store when they see him. Maybe it’s his size—he is significantly larger than most people, something that had been an object of teasing as a child but now serves as a source of power and intimidation. Or maybe it is his “resting bitch face” as Phasma once called it. 

Either way, it is highly convenient in keeping children away from him and keeping him out of being voluntold to participate in charity events on behalf of the Bureau. At least Phasma would be the one dealing with the snotty noses and whining and _not_ him. 

_Shit, why is he even considering this?_

“I’m at the school in case they attempt contact while she’s at work. It’s not entirely necessary, I’ll give you that. Schools these days are pretty locked down. But she and the principal requested an agent, and for _god knows_ what reason, Ackbar agreed. I think he has a history with this principal, if you know what I mean.”

Ben rolls his eyes. “It’s a waste of an agent.”

Phasma shrugs. “It’s settled, so I’m not gonna fight it. The surveillance unit is getting set up in the apartment across from hers, and that’s what I’m focusing on now.”

“Has it been swept yet?” He chews his lip. 

Phasma smirks. “It has.” She opens the file and starts flipping through the papers quickly, licking her thumb as she goes and nodding enthusiastically. “She’ll move in from the safe house this week.” 

“Do we have limited ingress?” Ben moves his stack of paperwork, carelessly dropping it on top of his keyboard to make room for her, and runs his hand through his shaggy black hair, brushing it out of his eyes.

“Yes.” Phasma unfolds a large blueprint on his desk—one of the standard apartment floor plans. Ordinary enough. She points as she speaks. 

“Third floor, so no exterior access, plus it’s in the corner. Central elevator and two staircases. Keypad entry into the building. Already covered with CC cameras we’ve patched into.”

“What about a car? Commute route—“ Ben rubs his chin as he looks at the blue lines. 

“It’s walkable. The apartment is only a couple blocks from the school.”

He nodded. That was good. They were fond of car bombs, and the last one had been...well, _gruesome_ didn’t even seem sufficient. 

“Do we have visual on the whole route?

“Mostly, but it won’t matter.”

“Why not?” He looks at her, confused.

“She’s getting a daily escort.”

“What!?” Ben balks. This was getting excessive. Bait or not, she’s a peripheral member of the family. It’s hardly warranted.

“I’m walking in with her daily.” Phasma crosses her arms.

“So is there a relief team?” He groans a little after the question. Fuck, he already knows the answer. 

She cringes. “No. It’s just us. Ackbar was very clear. Dirty agents, remember? Only three people know she’s in protective custody and who she is. You’ll make four. The others have no idea who she really is.”

Ben blows out a hard breath and shakes his head. This was _stupid_. A suspicion was growing in his mind—it is high risk, high reward, but could be a lot of effort for potentially little return. And there is another possibility to consider.

“Let me take about eight steps back here.” Narrowing his eyes, he points his pen at Phasma as he leans back in his chair, whose rickety frame groans in protest. “You’re getting _played_ by this girl.” 

“I highly doubt that.” She straightens up and crosses her arms over her chest. 

“Phas, be _real_. A granddaughter appears out of nowhere with some kind of major inheritance? She’s either a charlatan or some mistress that we missed along the way.” _Likely_. Mafia dons always liked them young...four or five secret families. “How old is she?”

“Twenty-five.”

“Yeah. Mistress.” He cringed slightly. He could see her already: bottle blonde, pink nails, breasts just a little too high and inflated. Huge Louis Vuitton bag to carry all her drugs, secrets, and probably a tiny, vicious dog. Just like the other three. People will do a lot, put up with a lot, for a taste of money and power. Sheev had been nothing to look at and then absolutely _grotesque_ by the end. 

_The evil eats you away inside._

Phasma laughs. “She’s definitely not a mistress, weirdo. She’s got nothing but pure hate for that old bastard. No love there.”

_As if love ever had anything to do with sex._

“Fine, then she’s a mole. _You’re_ not going to be sniffing out dirty agents, _she is_. She’s here to test loyalties.”

“She passed every one of the usual tests.” Phasma cocks her head in defiance and flops another paper in front of Ben, her frustration unhidden at his growing list of qualms. He glances at the form. 

“I bet she did.” His face sours.

_...she did._

“Quit over-analyzing this like an obsessive perfectionist and just agree already.” Phasma points her hand at him in exasperation.

He bristles. People don’t push him around and it’s going to get her nowhere. 

“This has been a pointless conversation. I’m on leave. For a very good reason.” He swallows thickly. “Find someone else.” 

Phasma inhales and exhales slowly. “Yeah and instead of actually _taking_ mental health leave, you’ve been back at work everyday. You need this. You’re going to say yes.”

“No. I’m not doing cover for an obvious mole.”

“Hold up, cowboy, did you miss the part where _I'm_ the agent-in-command? I’m doing the cover. You’re surveillance and side work. You’re my bitch. Just like you want.” She winks at him, and he rolls his eyes.

Phasma reaches into her pocket and pulls out a slim USB stick. “Here, just watch it. Call me in the morning, and we’ll talk more.” She slides the stick across the desk. “You’ll need your clearance code to open it.”

“What is this?” 

“One of her debriefs.” Phasma runs her hand through her neat blonde hair and pulls a cap from her jacket pocket. She adjusts it on her head, pulling it low around her eyes. 

Ben takes the USB drive into his hand, a tiny black rectangle in his large palm. 

“She’s the real deal, Solo. And she needs us. You’re going to say yes.”

She pulls the door handle. “And if not,”—she shoots a side glance from under her cap, a wicked smirk on her lips—“you need a regulation haircut. You’re not undercover anymore, _right_?” 

He narrows his eyes and shoots her a dark look.

“Talk to you in the morning, Ears.” She skitters out the door and nearly sprints down the hall, never seeing the violently drawn middle finger Ben is holding in the air. 

The door shuts behind her with a loud click, and the office falls back to the familiar, lonely quiet around Ben.

He looks at the USB drive and lets out a long sigh. 

Four months have passed since he’d come back. Four months since he’d driven seven straight hours overnight and crumpled to his knees in the lobby of the field office with nothing but an old badge, an illegal firearm, and a name he hardly remembered. Ackbar had been understanding, putting him on leave right away. But it can’t last. It’s getting harder to keep saying no, and unless he wants to quit and start a whole new career, one day he will have to get back out there. He doesn’t have a good reason not to take on this case. 

No, he _does_. The reasons are in the towers of old cardboard boxes in his half empty condo. In the nicotine addiction he wakes up with every morning. In the weekly meetings with the Bureau counselor about his PTSD.

_In the ground beneath two headstones at the edge of the city._

He’d sworn to himself that Finalizer was it. Never again. He wouldn’t survive it. Ben Solo would disappear forever into that other man. 

_And yet_ , if this could be the nail in the coffin of the empire…maybe he’d finally sleep through the night again. Maybe he’d finally forgive himself.

He rolls the stick in his hand before reluctantly, apprehensively, jamming it into his computer.

...

“Alright, Agent Solo, anything else we can do?”

“No, that’s it.” Ben squirms and adjusts his shoulder holster. It always takes a few days of tightening and loosening until he gets it just right, and with the recent free time on his hands he’d been hitting the gym more than usual. 

_“What’s your name?”_

_“My name is Rey. Rey Niima.”_

_“Oh really?”_

_Wexley was always a hot shot. Nothing worse than a hotshot in a debrief. Or anywhere for that matter._

_“Or do you mean Rey_ Palpatine _?”_

_“No.” Her eyes are angry. Defiant._

_And green._

The armory clerk slides the gun and badge through the slot. Ben frowns when he touches the indentations of the discreet belt badge for plainclothes work, the cold metal of the gun. He quickly checks the magazine, then reloads it and chambers a round, double checking the safety. He holsters it. 

_“But how could you not know? One of the biggest crime empires on the east coast—“_

A clank of metal on metal. “And here’s the spare.” The second magazine slides through the slot. Ben pockets it. 

_“I knew he killed my parents. I never wanted to know more.”_

Clearing his throat, the clerk checks his sheet. “Alright. Two full magazines. Glock 9mm. Single shoulder holster. Belt holster. Badges.” 

The clerk gives a small yawn and rubs under his glasses. Ben lifts his watch. 12:16AM. 

“We already have Ackbar’s approval for you, so it’s just the usual. Name and badge number on the line.” He slides the sheet out to Ben and points.

_“I know you just want out. To disappear. To be nobody.” Ackbar should have been brought in first. He was always better at rapport. “But we both know you’ll run for the rest of your life.”_

Ben scratches the pen against the corner of the form, making little blank furrows in the paper. He tosses it with a little too much agitation through the slot at the clerk. “This one’s dry.”

_She clutches the paper cup in her hands. Slender hands. Bare nails._

Another blue Bic pen slides out, and Ben catches it. 

_“We have a proposition. A deal. Cooperation for a potential lifetime of freedom.”_

_She lifts a hand to brush back her wavy chestnut hair that falls over her shoulders. She’s looking at Ackbar, but he’s so close to the camera that it’s as if she’s looking through the lens. Looking at Ben._

_“Anything.”_

He scrawls it out, steadier this time than the last time he signed it. Steadier each time.

_Special Agent Benjamin Solo_


	2. Chapter 2

“All packed up?”

The voice is cheerful but still startles Rey from her thousand-yard-stare out the window toward the apartment complex’s courtyard. 

“Oh! Yeah.”

 _Packed up_ …a funny way of putting it now. She looks over at her single suitcase. A blue hardshell--new to her, but containing only about one third of the clothes she once had, which now constitutes the entirety of her possessions. What is there to pack up when you don’t own anything?

Agent Storm, _Finn_ , is smiling at her from the doorway of her bedroom, his bright smile beaming in his warm face, dark eyes and skin shining like always. His positivity is contagious, and she’s glad that he’s the one on duty today. She needs some positivity. 

“Great!” He claps his hands together. “Ready to see your new home? I promise it’ll be more cheerful than this dump.”

She nods, and laughs a little, forcing a tight smile as she pulls the handle of the suitcase and follows him out. 

_Home_ …another funny word. She had a home in Exegol. One that belongs to the FBI now--the home they’d raided. The one the clothes in the suitcase had come from after a week of waiting and wearing borrowed, unflattering clothes from the witness protection unit’s stock. 

_Witpro_. That’s what they call it among themselves. And she was a _witness_. Sometimes Finn (at least _he_ treats her like a real person and lets her call him Finn instead of Agent Whateverface like the others), would say “Peanut” over the phone, and she guessed that was a code for her. He was the closest thing she’d made to a friend over the past three weeks. 

She had none now--friends, that is. She’d had to leave those behind, too. Like her garden. Like the house she shared with Lor until he died. Maybe her friends thought she was dead. What _had_ the FBI told them? She could have asked by now but hadn’t. 

Maybe she didn’t want to know. Maybe it hurt too much. 

Finn places his hand gently on the top of her back as he guides her out of the dim, rundown apartment to the street where a black town car is parked. The sun is shining bright, and it _is_ starting to feel like something new is beginning. 

For one, she’s leaving the hovel they call a safe house. Safe from murderers, sure. Safe from cockroaches, not so much. 

For two, the arrangement Director Ackbar had made couldn’t have been better, under the current circumstances at least. She’d met people, _real_ people, the night before at orientation while one agent sat armed in a car and another pretended to be a parent. But the rest of the hands she’d shook that night at the school had all been _real_. And she’d liked these new coworkers. And she’d see them every weekday. Maybe they could become friends, _whatever that word means now_. 

And for that matter, for _three_ , she’d finally be working again. How much she would need work was not something she had considered when she’d driven for hours in the dead of night and frantically slammed the call button outside the office--with the safety would come the _boredom_. Intense, soul-sucking boredom. No phone calls, no texting, no social media. All of it shut down. All passwords and accounts now belong to the FBI. No calling her old job and explaining her absence. No checking in on her friends. A week long wait before she could even get any of her clothes, and no ordering new ones because the FBI had frozen all of her accounts except the one they were oh-so-graciously going to allow her to start paying her apartment rent and food out of. No leaving the safe house. A supervised brisk walk to the apartment mailbox and back with Finn if she begged and pleaded. No more runs in the park. 

The boredom was crushing.

Finn had done his best. He had gotten the Netflix and Hulu accounts set up for her. He would sit with her and watch TV if he was on duty. He liked the same stupid shows she did, and she had enjoyed watching him get pissed off and shout _“It’s not like that at all!”_ followed by a sheepish _“Okay, it’s sometimes like that”_ at the screen when they watched _Archer_. He was a lot more fun than Agent Wexley ever was. When Wexley was on duty, she just shut herself in her room and worked her way through the stack of paperback romances someone had left behind. 

But thankfully she’s leaving that drab apartment and stack of books that only made her feel more lonely. No more Agent Wexley, no more scratchy, musty couch.

Finn says something quickly into his watch, and then opens the door for her, not making eye contact as she slides in. He pops the trunk and tosses her bag in. He’s serious now--distracted by the task of protecting her. 

She sighs as she buckles. If this is what would pass for friendship from now on, then she’d have to take it. 

Because the alternative makes her body breakout in a cold sweat. The alternative was made clear to her with a hard knock on her door by two horrible men mere hours after a lawyer had phoned her about an ungodly sum of money and the second most devastating news she’d ever received:

Her name wasn’t Niima. 

_No,_ she thinks obstinately as they pull out of the lot. _No. It is Niima._ She is Rey Niima. Rey Niima, the early childhood educator. Lor Tekka is her grandfather. She knows her own name. And it will never be Palpatine. 

And no amount of zeros in a bank account will change that.

...

“Waffle cut.”

“Waffle cut? Are you twelve?” The cold air of the freezer is tingling Ben’s face.

“Just shut up and get them,” Phasma snaps.

He pulls on the red bag, but it’s wedged in tight, packed into the row by some overzealous stocker. Jerking hard he finally releases it, and it doesn’t improve his mood.

“What’s going on? You’re grunting.”

He ignores her. “What’s left on the list, Phas?”

“Nothing, but let’s get some ice cream.” She coughs a little into the phone.

He rolls his eyes. “Maybe you _are_ a perfect fit for kindergarten. Are you sure you’ve picked the right career path?”

“I won’t say anything about your protein shakes if you shut up about the ice cream. Come on! How often do we get to eat on the Bureau’s dime? Oh, we should go to Trader Joe’s next week.”

“Phas, I’m hanging up.”

“Half Baked! Two pints!” 

He taps the phone and pockets it in his jacket. Begrudgingly he tosses the two pints on top of the mountain of food. The cart is overfull now, too heavy for those rickety wheels, and for a moment he worries whether the tiny apartment fridge will hold it all. 

_Meh_ . He gives a little shrug to himself. If it doesn’t fit, tonight he and Phas can demolish at least three pounds of food each. Accounts payable will be downright _apoplectic_ when they see the receipts. Just like last time. That’s what they get for putting him and the Amazon Queen, Daughter of Zeus, _Gwen Phasma_ on a team.

As he wheels the cart toward the checkout, he tries to remember the last op they did together. It had to be at least four years. Before his two years of deep cover. Before all the... 

_Operation Starkiller._

_Yeah, that was it_ . Shit, _that_ had been a ride, but they had worked well together. She was snarky and bossy, but in the best way, and she was tough. She didn’t take shit from anyone. Ackbar had picked well—she was the only agent Ben knew that could easily handle a hand-to-hand assault on the street, and she was a good choice for a daily escort. And on top of it all, she was discreet as hell. _From years of being in the closet_ , Ben reflected, his lips turning down slightly. She knew how to keep secrets--had learned it the hard way.

In the daze of his thoughts, he’s not scanning his surroundings as often as he should. Three months of leave that morphed into desk work had left him out of practice. 

Something snaps him out of it, and he feels the shame of having mentally wandered followed quickly by a short flare of pique at himself and the Bureau. He wasn’t technically on the clock yet—he was entitled to turn _it_ off. _But you’re never off the clock, Solo,_ he thinks, his body suddenly aware of the strain of a holster against the flex of his upper traps. 

What caught his attention? He’s passed it already, whatever it was, something down the last checkout aisle. If he sees it again he’ll know. He casually scans. 

Chestnut hair. 

His body tenses, then he quickly turns down the adjacent aisle. With his height he can see over the rows of electric colored candy and gum to the next lane as he absentmindedly unloads his items. 

It’s _her_. Rey Niima. His witness.

Her hair hides most of her face, but as she shifts on her feet he can catch enough of her profile to be sure. She’s taller than he expected, but he’s sure he’d still dwarf her if he were closer. She’s chewing her nail and standing behind an old woman struggling to unload a huge yellow tub of cat litter onto the belt. 

“Can I help?” Rey asks.

“Oh no, sweetie. You don’t—“

“I don’t mind.” She moves forward quickly, lifting the tub onto the black strip.

_Strong._

_Stop, Solo._

She’s not supposed to be here. She’s not supposed to be out. This is a high-exposure environment, and they are not ready yet for a member of the organization to make a positive ID on her. What the fuck is she thinking? Why the fuck is she here? There is a plan in place, and it’s not being followed. Someone is going to feel his wrath, that’s for damn sure.

He recklessly throws the rest of the groceries onto the belt—no sorting, no attention paid to the crushables. He texts Phas.

 **Ben:** Bird is out of the cage.

 **Phasma:** WHAT??? No. Where?? 

**Ben:** Store. I have eyes. 

**Phasma:** She has been TOLD! Is Storm there? He just dropped her off **.**

 **Ben:** I thought you were watching. 

**Phasma:** I was!

 **Ben** : I’ll follow. 

Furious, he pockets the phone. 

This is how agents get _killed_. This is how things go sideways. Witnesses, informants _not_ following orders. Thinking they’re special. Thinking they’re invincible. Thinking they’re _clever_. 

When he gets hold of her, he’s going to _truly_ give it to her. 

“Good afternoon, sir, how are you? Paper or plastic?” comes a droll voice from in front of him. 

“Doesn’t matter,” he snaps. No glance is spared for the cashier, a youngish kid, probably his first summer out of high school. Ben is still staring down at Rey as she smiles at the old woman she had helped. 

“Do you want your meat separate from—“

“I don’t care,” he barks back at the cashier, giving him a withering glare. The boy gives a few short, distressed nods. Ben turns back to look at the next aisle and—

She’s staring right at him. 

He’s been too loud. He clenches his jaw. _Shit._

Before she turns back, he has just enough time to see her eyes narrow, see her take a quick inhale, see—

The freckles on her nose.

He looks ahead at the teenage girl now bagging his groceries. Trying to focus his attention anywhere else.

_Fuck. Fuck. Fuck._

He starts counting to calm and center himself. He has to find it. Find some rapport building. He can’t follow her discreetly now, so he needs an invitation. She doesn’t know who he is yet. He could joke with the stupid cashier, give off that friendly vibe he’s _oh so good at_. 

He frowns. A ruse maybe? Dropped bill. A twenty. That always works. Everyone comes back for a dropped twenty. 

He’s standing at the card reader, anxiously tapping his foot and trying not to look when a hand touches his arm. Ripped violently from the internal practice monologue of “ _Ma’am? Excuse me, ma’am? Sorry, you dropped this,_ ” he jolts slightly.

“Solo?” The voice at his shoulder is low.

He turns to see a shorter Black man holding his arm, his brown eyes relieved.

_Fucking Finn Storm._

“Storm, _Jesus_. Where the fuck have you been?”

Finn gently moves his hand away from his lower back, pulling it out from his jacket, and carefully showing it as empty to Ben. 

Ben gives him an angry look. _That’s right. You better think twice about drawing on me._ He fumes, blowing an angry exhale out his nose.

“Hey, man, I didn’t know it was you.” Finn holds his empty hands out slightly in an apologetic gesture. Ben only sets his jaw.

“What the _fuck_ , Storm?” Ben gives a slight inclination of his head in the direction of Rey. Their witness. Their target. The whole goddamn reason they are armed inside a downtown grocery store.

“I’ve been waiting at the door. She texted that some big asshole was watching her and giving her the creeps. I didn’t know it was you.”

_Giving her the creeps? Big asshole? He’s just—_

Just a big creepy asshole she doesn’t know.

Finn’s eyes cut to behind Ben, and he gives a slight affirming nod, no doubt to Rey. Ben doesn’t turn.

 _Waiting at the door!?_ Ben fumes. “This isn’t amateur hour, Storm. You can’t—“ He stops himself, glancing at the cashier. Too many eyes and ears, and he’s too angry to keep his voice down. “Go to the apartment. We’ll talk.”

Finn nods, a flash of relief on his face. 

_Oh, that feeling is_ not _gonna last, buddy._

Ben jerks his head to indicate the exit. Finn backs out of the aisle, and Ben watches as he slides out by the pharmacy. 

Rey is helping the bagger load her bags into the cart. She glances up at Ben, brow still furrowed, then quickly looks back at her bags, hauling four in at a time. 

The eye contact pulls a flush onto Ben’s chest, and he presses his lips together. _Stupid._ It was stupid and risky and did not bode well for the weeks and maybe months to come. The grocery trip may have been Finn’s idea, but he’s got a _strong_ suspicion who it actually came from. He’s going to bring hell down on both of them, even if her eyes are a lot brighter in person and her mouth a lot—

“That’s two hundred sixty and thirty seven cents.”

The cashier pops his gum and leans against the counter. Ben grinds his teeth. It’s like everyone in his thirty foot radius is _designed_ to annoy him today. He shoves his card into the reader and rips it back out at the beep. 

He really needed that fucking mental health leave. And a goddamn cigarette. 

There’s gonna be hell to pay. 

...

He’s had an entire car ride to stew after watching Storm and Rey pull out of the parking lot as he popped the trunk of his Bureau-issued SUV. It was a nondescript black hulk of a car on the outside but packed full of the hidden lights and equipment anyone could need in a field operation. He didn’t _really_ need an issued car, but requested one anyway. At his clearance level it was a convenience he was entitled to, and by god, he was going to make the most of it.

He’s even more pissed off by the time he pulls into the apartment building’s garage, using the fob Phasma had issued him with the apartment key to get in. Rey and Storm are nowhere to be seen, and he borrows one of the loose moving carts with “Rimview Apts DO NOT REMOVE” stenciled onto it to load the groceries up to the third floor.

He can hear a voice from the apartment that must be Rey’s when he pushes his way into his and Phasma’s unit, heavily laden with bags and _pissed._

The apartment is as bare as it was when he dropped in the day before: basic beige walls and the standard fare of unimaginative gray furniture from the Bureau’s housing unit. Like living in the most derivative highway conference hotel room for a month or, god forbid, longer. The only distinction is the long black table along one wall where the tech team has already connected a computer and three monitors filled with little gray and white boxes of CCTV feed. It's the table that’s going to be his workplace for the next indefinite number of nights. Phasma swivels in the chair in front of them and looks at him, yawning. 

“Hey.”

“I’m going to lose my shit already, Phas, you should find someone else.”

“Hey, it turned out fine. They just need a reminder.”

He slams the bags onto the counter. A can of black beans rolls out of one. He glares at her.

“Calm down. _I’ll_ talk to them. I’m agent-in-command.” Phasma rubs her forehead and frowns. 

“That honestly may be best because I’m fucking furious.” Ben jerks the refrigerator open and crouches, throwing in slices of cheese and deli turkey without looking. “I haven’t even started yet, and shit is already going sideways.”

“Okay, okay, I said I’ll do the talking. This takes a... _different_ kind of rapport than you’re used to anyway.” She slumps onto a barstool now, rubbing her temples. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Ben stands and huffs. 

She gives him a sour look with her lips pressed together. 

“Fine. Fine.” Ben waves his hand. She’s right. This was not his usual beat. He was never good at the comfort and soothe routine. The gentle guidance and enforcement routine. Or the laughing and joking routine. 

Now, someone who needs, let’s say, a _physical_ reminder that he’s not top dog? Someone who needs their ass slammed into a wall? Someone looking for someone to talk about black market rates for AKs? _That_ was Ben’s arena. He points at Phasma.

“But it better be _real_ clear. To both of them. Storm should have known better. She’s too important.”

 _Weird wording. Shouldn’t have said that._ He goes back to carelessly loading the groceries into the fridge. 

Phasma lays her forehead on the counter. “I know. Storm is still learning. But he doesn’t have the clearance to know her identity, so he just assumed it was a normal case.” She sighs. “I thought he’d be good for transport here because he’s already built trust with her at the safe house. Maybe it’s too much trust. Maybe he’s gotten too close.”

Ben feels his skin prickle, and heat flare along his sides. He pops up from his crouch at the fridge again like some irate, fixated prairie dog. 

“Too close? Too close _how_ ? I won’t tolerate that shit on my team.” _Definitely not_ . Definitely will not tolerate if that fucking amateur Storm is touching her. She’s a witness. It’s _unprofessional_. _No agent should ever...ever...and anyway Storm is probably an amateur at_ everything _, including—_

Phasma just grunts.

He freezes and narrows his eyes at her white-blonde head laid on the fake granite. She’s not her usual self. “What’s up with you?”

“Just a headache. I took something already.” She waves a hand at him but doesn’t look up. Doesn’t really move. 

“ _Phas--_ ” This was not good.

“I’m not sick.”

He frowns. “School is on Monday.”

“I know. It’s probably just a cold. I have thirty-six hours. I’ll be fine.” She sucks in a deep breath and pulls her body upright. Now that he can see her face clearly, Ben notices she’s looking a little pale. 

“Okay.” She groans a little as she moves off the stool. “Let’s do this. I’ll do the talking. You just...well, just stand there and look like yourself.”

He flips her off.

After he finishes a sloppy unload job on the groceries, they cross the hall to rain down hell on Storm and Rey. Phasma knocks, and Ben can hear Rey laugh as they stand outside the door. The heat at his sides flares again, and he adjusts the strap of his shoulder holster. Maybe he’ll switch to the belt holster. He can’t get this one right, and all his clothes feel too tight, and his skin feels too tight, and--

“Come on in.” Storm opens the door, the smile from whatever joke they shared still spread on his straight bright teeth. It quickly fades as he catches sight of Ben's face.

“Where is she?” Ben asks, annoyed. _Shouldn’t have said that._

Phasma looks at him and frowns. Storm quirks an eyebrow, but points toward the living room. The floor plan is identical, _intentionally_ , to the apartment he shares with Phasma, outfitted with the same boring furniture and forgettable wall art. He pushes past Storm into the hallway. 

_What are you doing, Solo? This is not the plan. You’re not agent-in--_

“Oh, hi.” She smiles at him. And Ben—

Ben freezes.

She’s wearing jeans and a tank top, and the freckles on her nose were only a hint of the delicate galaxies and constellations on her shoulders and chest. She’s smiling in a self-deprecating way, just a hint of shame in the shape of her lips. Her hands are squeezed between her knees, and she might be blushing, and Ben--

Ben can’t remember anything he was going to say. 

Luckily, she speaks.

“I’m sorry I panicked at the store, but I didn’t know who you were. I’m so sorry. I hope I didn’t upset you.”

“Don’t apologize.” _What?! No, she should_ definitely _apologize! She was told the rules._

He clears his throat and leans to her, holding out his hand to her and flashing his badge with the other—probably not necessary but still best to establish authority. “Special Agent Ben Solo. We haven’t met yet. I’m the big asshole.”

She smiles and releases a short “Ha!” and an embarrassed “Sorry.” Ben feels the corner of his mouth pull up. Just slightly. Not a smile. He doesn’t smile.

“Rey Niima.” Her fingers are as slender as they were in the video--small, soft, and breakable in his hand. He pulls back quickly. 

“Look, Solo, I didn’t know that this assignment was more strict than my last witpro. It’s on me.” Storm comes in from the hall now, Phasma trailing behind him. Rey looks up from the couch and smiles brightly at Storm. 

No, Ben doesn’t like _that_ at all. 

“Yeah, it _is_ on you.” He snaps at Storm. “But I’m not agent-in-command, and you better be damn glad I’m not, or your ass would be off this assignment.”

“No, it’s _my_ fault.” Rey says, jumping to Storm’s defense. “There wasn’t anything in the fridge when we got here, and I was starving. I really whined at him--”

“They didn’t pre-stock it?” Ben interrupts her, concerned. 

She shakes her head. 

It only takes seconds before his brain supplies a reason. A test. Ackbar is testing her. A mole or a charlatan is going to milk the bureau. They’ll see how long she’s willing to foot her own bills. 

_I can feed her._

_Shouldn’t have thought that, Solo._

“In any case,” Phasma finally speaks up. “We need to revisit the clear and specific boundaries to avoid any further exposure.” She sits on the armchair, but it’s more of a slouch than the straight-backed, no-nonsense posture she usually commands. 

As Phasma explains the guidelines of movement to Rey again, Ben grows more concerned. Phasma’s repeating herself, stumbling to find the words she wants. She’s looking paler by the minute. Her forceful voice is quieter, and she’s clearing her throat and swallowing too much. _Not good_. He needs to get her back to the apartment. It’s only three o’clock. The med officer is probably still at the field office. 

“Alright, you get the picture. Don’t you?” Ben asks, pointing at Storm, who nods emphatically. Rey follows his lead, her chestnut bun bouncing as she nods, a couple of loose strands falling down. Ben stands and motions for Phasma to do the same. She does, swaying a little, and starts walking to the front door. He quickly pulls out one of his cards, handing it to Rey. “I think you have everyone else’s info by now. But here’s mine. You know where to find me.”

Grasping the corner with her fingertips, she takes the white card in her hand and holds it close to her face to read it. _A little near-sighted maybe._ She stands up from the couch.

She’s taller than most women, but still small enough to fit right against his—

“' _Special Agent Benjamin O. Solo,_ ’” she reads out loud. Biting her lower lip, she looks up with a hint of skepticism through her lashes. Testing him. Judging him. Disbelieving him. “Is that your _real_ name?” 

He quirks his mouth a little. “Yes. Why?”

“Oh, just curious. I know some of you use fake names undercover.” She points at Phas, who is rapidly deteriorating and now leaning against the hallway wall. “But I guess you’re not undercover. _You’re_ just the one watching me while I sleep.” 

“It’s not _quite_ like that.” But the heat on his sides flares yet again, spreading around his abdomen and up his chest. “There aren’t cameras in your bedroom.” The heat spreads to his neck, cinching his throat. He resists the urge to clear it. 

She smirks. “What does the “O.” stand for?”

He shakes his head and huffs through a little smirk of his own. “It’s classified.” Is he _teasing_ her? “You’ll never guess.”

This isn’t flirting. Just that rapport building they always tell him he needs to get better at. _That’s all._

“I can figure it out. I’m good at guessing names.” She’s smiling again, and her nose crinkles a little. He presses his lips together, but the corners want to turn up. 

“Not this one. It’ll take you a thousand tries.” _What are you doing, Solo? Shut up and go._

“I can do it in ten tries,” she goads.

“We’ll see.”

_Did you just fucking smile, big asshole?_

“Solo. I need to--” Phasma’s voice is raspy from the hallway. 

“Yeah. Yeah, you need to go,” he answers Phas grudgingly. “Storm?” 

“I’m going to help Rey unpack the food then head out. I’ll stop by on my way.” Storm nods toward Ben.

Ben nods back then follows Phasma to the door. She reaches to open it, but Ben pushes her out of the way. The last thing he needs is Phas spreading whatever she’s obviously got to their witness. To _her._ He opens the door, and Phasma passes through.

“See you around, Benjamin _Oliver_.” 

A swoop in his diaphragm, a flare of heat, and he nearly stumbles. He clamps his mouth shut. He feels a little disoriented. He’s _not_ playful. He _doesn’t_ flirt. He _doesn’t_ joke. He shouldn’t look, but he does. 

_The brightest hazel green eyes..._

He shakes his head. “That leaves nine.” He holds up his all fingers and dramatically lowers his thumb. 

Snapping her fingers and swishing her hand in defeat, Rey scrunches her nose before she smiles and walks back to the living room. 

_Stop this, Solo._

_Dangerous._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh Agent Solo, tell us more about all the unprofessional fraternization you won't tolerate.


	3. Chapter 3

He hears the groaning before he even sees her. The loud clank of her keys on the counter echoes in the nearly empty apartment.

“Well?” He asks, turning away from the computer monitors, where he’d been casually—yes, definitely casually—watching Rey watch TV. 

“Mono.” Phasma groans out the word, coating it in the fatigue that suits it. 

_No, no, no, no. This is very bad._

“Did they test you?” Ben rises from his chair. They have auditory alerts set up—the computer will ping him with each building entry and sound an alarm if the sound in her apartment goes over a shout. She has the panic button under her bed, too. He can afford to step away for a few minutes to sort out this new shitshow.

“Yep. Rose called me on the way. She has it, too.”

“What the hell are we going to do now?” His mind is a long unbroken string of profanity—a supercalifragilistic of fucks, shits, damns, and _godfuckingdammitalls_! It’s his first operation back, and it’s already turned into a complete dumpster fire. This is _not_ how he likes his operations—they should be clean, planned, efficient, with four backup strategies for every move. 

“We’ll just carry on.” She slumps into the armchair, long legs dangling over one arm and head dangling over the other.

“You cannot work. Not with mono.”

“I can.”

“No. Not if you’re sleeping eleven hours a day.”

“I can do this,” she insists through a yawn.

“No, I’m calling Ackbar.”

Of course, he _immediately_ regrets it. 

“There’s not really an alternative, Solo.” Ackbar’s voice is firm in Ben’s ear. Phasma has migrated to the couch and piled every comforter and blanket from her room onto herself while she leans as close as she can to listen in. They can’t risk a loud speaker call in the thin-walled apartment. 

“What about Finn Storm?”

“He’s got less than half the assault training you have, and he doesn’t have the clearance.”

“He doesn’t need to know who she is to babysit her.”

Ackbar grunts. “Solo, think about it from my perspective. You want to be director of a field office one day, right? What would you do? Put a green agent with insufficient clearance on protection duty for a high value target? All because _a more senior and experienced agent hates kids?_ ” The tone of irritation in Ackbar’s voice is strong enough that even Phasma cringes.

“Sir, with all due respect, I don’t hate kids”— _actually, he’s pretty sure he does_ —“but I don’t think I’m the right fit for this job. Would _you_ believe _me_ as a preschool aide?” He gestures to his body and face even though Ackbar can’t see.

Phasma snorts from her blanket fort on the couch. 

“It’s not ideal, but we don’t have a choice.” Ackbar acknowledges. “You can do day-detail at the school with her. I’m sending Storm back your way. He can cover night shift surveillance until Phasma feels well enough to take back over. For the time being, you’re agent-in-command.”

Ben pinches the bridge of his nose and lowers his voice. 

“Sir, I left cover work for a reason. _Good_ reasons—we _both_ agreed that I needed to step away.” His voice lowers and softens as he speaks, his throat tightening. “I’m not ready to go undercover again.”

The other end of the line is quiet for a moment, then a long staticky sigh bleeds through the speaker. 

“I know. But it’s not full cover. She already knows your name. The school is really secure. You won’t have to do the things you had to last time. _It’s just kids, Ben._ ”

He presses his lips, somehow both soothed and annoyed by the old man. Something about her knowing his name helped—not having to carry the burden of an alias, a legend, and _speaking of—_

“This is a Palpatine operation. If they spot me, they’ll recognize me.”

“I’ve thought of that, and it might actually help things. If they see you with her, they’ll think Kylo Ren is helping her hide the money—they still aren’t sure where you went based on the surveillance we’ve picked up. They’ll see the job as a twofer, and it may pull some of the heat off her, and onto you. What they still don’t know is that you’re a fed, and they’ll be in a world of hurt the moment they get bold.”

Oh, great, so now _he’s_ bait, too. “Wow, sir, this is _really_ not helping me feel good about this.”

“Jesus, relax. I already have a tactical team ready the moment we need them. We’ve got a five minute deployment time to the apartment. Not that I think we’ll need them that fast—we’ll probably get warning. They’re sloppier now that the head of the snake is gone, and it’s a power vacuum. It’s only those two assholes left and a handful of minions. The empire is not what it once was. You did good work, kid.”

Ben blows out a hard breath then grits his teeth. This job was supposed to be a few weeks of sitting in front of the monitors with a cup of coffee. Doing the grocery runs. Working out in the apartment gym. Now he’s going to have to do what exactly? Cut pineapple bits? Come home covered in glitter? Wipe noses? _Wipe asses??_ Why couldn’t Storm just do it? 

_Wait_. No. Ackbar is right. That would mean she’d be with Storm all day. Storm would walk her to and from the school. Storm would be there all day with his dumb perfect smile. Storm would be there, trying to fight off a kidnapping attempt. No combat skills, no grit. _Amateur hour._ The only thing between her and the trunk of a car. Torture. Death.

No, Ben didn’t like _that_ at all. 

“I don’t know what to do.” He finally says quietly, sheepishly.

“I don’t recall offering a choice here.” Ackbar’s tone is scolding.

“No, I mean,”—Ben grimaces— “what the hell does a preschool aide _do?_ ”

Ackbar laughs. “Ha! I don’t know, wipe butts? Phasma can help. Rose teaches second grade. She gave her enough of a rundown before the assignment.”

Ben looks over at Phasma who nods. He didn’t know her wife was teaching. Well, he hardly knew her wife since for two years the only contact they’d had was the occasional bump pass at the seven eleven. 

“Rey should help you, too. You can go tell her when we hang up. Storm will be back there by tonight. You can split the shift until he gets his sleep cycle adjusted. Phasma?”

“Yes? Yes, sir?” She tries to sit up quickly under the weight of her blankets to lean in closer. 

“Give him the security and protocol run down for the school. Oh, and I’ll call Maz too. She’s getting old, and we don’t need Lurch here catching her off-guard on Monday.”

_Lurch?_

“Sir—“ Ben tries to interrupt.

“Start by practicing _smiling_ , Solo.” Ackbar shouts through the phone. Ben frowns. “Call if there’s trouble.”

The white noise of the phone static goes silent.

_Supercalifragilisticfuckinggoddammit._

…

The edge of the card is stiff along her fingers. She presses her index finger into the corner, letting it gently stab into the pad of said finger, using her other hand to type on the phone.

**Create New Contact**

**Name  
** **Benjamin O? Solo**

It isn’t really necessary. She isn’t going to spend much, if any, time talking to this new agent. Not that she really wants to anyway—he kind of _is_ a big asshole, even if his features are a little strong and draw her eye at certain angles. He’s not going to be a friend. He’s just the one watching all the cameras Finn showed her in the apartment. 

He is probably watching her now, as she sits on her couch. 

Frowning up at the tiny black dot in the corner of the living room, she straightens quickly and pockets the card and the phone that had been waiting for her when she arrived.

She had tried to manage her reaction when Finn had handed her the phone and given her instructions, but she had mostly failed to keep the pricking behind her eyes at bay. As casually as if he’d handed her a post-it pad, he had actually handed her a _key_ , a key to a door that had been closed for weeks. The outside world. Relationships. Friendships. Three contacts now. It wasn’t a list of friends. But it was a start. 

That phone was being watched, too, though. What had she overheard Agent Phasma— _Gwen_ , _she was allowed to call this one Gwen—_ say about the device to Finn? Tracked? Configured? _Mirrored_. That’s the word. So they already knew she had entered those names into it. 

But who watches the mirror?

Dark brown eyes set under intense eyebrows come to her mind.

She flushes and looks over at the tiny dot at the corner of her ceiling again. 

She’ll get used to it surely. And maybe this is best—that those eyes are on the other side of a screen, and she won’t have to look at them herself. Because they are…

 _Unsettling_. 

After unpacking her minimal possessions, she wanders aimlessly in the rooms, trying to make her body and feet learn it like a home. She attempts TV next, but that only keeps her entertained for about an hour before she’s looking for something to do again. The building has a gym, but she’s not sure if she’s allowed to use it yet. Checking the time, she settles on making dinner. Food always makes her feel better. She opens her freezer and picks a pasta meal that had caught her eye in the store. 

Jumping up a little in excitement, she remembers that she’d also brought home _alcohol_ now that she can buy her own groceries.

It isn’t a friend, but it’s the closest she’s got tonight. 

She drags a bar stool into the kitchen and balances on it to reach the cabinet above the microwave and pulls out a Sauvignon blanc from the bottles Finn had placed there. It isn’t cold because she hadn’t planned that far ahead _of course_ , but it didn’t matter. _And you know what? This calls for music._ She opens an NPR stream on her phone and hopes for the best and gets lucky with classical music. She uncorks the bottle, and looks around the apartment and smiles to herself. 

It’s empty, but it’s hers. She’s safe.

 _At least until they find you again,_ a voice in her head swoops in. A sweat covers her body, and a tremble starts in her hands. 

_But there are two agents across the hall_ , she tells herself. One of whom is probably leaning in a chair and watching her right now, light of a computer screen glowing against his dark hair.

She takes a long drink.

She’s humming to herself and watching for a simmer in her pan, her second glass of wine in her hand, when she hears the knock. 

Jumping, she nearly drops the glass. Her heart rate thunders, and she feels that clenching suffocating feeling of a nascent panic attack. What had that FBI counselor said? _Counting_. He told her to count something to center herself. Her throat is getting tight, and it’s getting harder to breathe, and—

“Rey, it’s Ben Solo,” comes a deep voice through the door.

Relief floods her, a little too much relief, followed by something akin to excitement then all of it rushed over by nerves. Of course those unsettling eyes find hers right away when she opens the door. 

“Hi, Agent Solo.”

He looks startled by his own name, but he frowns quickly. “Use the call and sign, Rey. You didn’t know it was me.”

She tilts her head. “You _told_ me. And I looked through the peephole. You’re hard to miss.” It was snarkier than she’d usually be. Second glass of wine maybe.

He takes a step into her doorway, and she moves to make room for him. In the span of just a couple hours she’d already forgotten how big he is, and his presence fills her small foyer. 

“We need to talk.” His tone is abrupt, and he motions to the kitchen. 

_Uh oh._ What had she done? It was the phone, wasn’t it? Maybe she wasn’t supposed to add his information. Maybe it’s the NPR. There were microphones in the apartment, too. Was there a volume limit? 

She nods and leads the way to the kitchen, squeezing her hands together as she walks. 

“Would you like a glass of wine?” she asks as cheerfully as she can. Maybe that will make it better. She grimaces a little. Isn’t that a crime? Bribing a federal official?

“Can’t. I’m on duty,” he answers quickly. 

“Oh, right.”

“You’re cooking dinner?” He sounds impressed.

She laughs a little, relaxing some. “Don’t get ahead of yourself. _Cooking_ is not the word I’d use. It’s frozen. I didn’t know what utensils and equipment would be here, so frozen seemed like the safest bet.”

“Do you have everything you need?” His question sounds genuine, and she looks over at him as he sits on one of the barstools.

Although _sitting_ seems as ill-fitting as _cooking_ , since he’s so large that it’s a strange sort of perch with his feet still firmly on the ground and his knees bent awkwardly under the narrow counter. His body forms uncomfortable angles as he tries to fold his large frame into the small space.

“Yeah, I think I do,” she says quickly, looking back at her meal and pushing it with a spatula. She doesn’t need to stir it, but the effect of his eyes on her when he asked what she needed was not something she was ready to revisit and explore. 

“You seem awfully relaxed.” There’s a note of appraisal in his voice. 

She laughs quickly. _Relaxed, yeah, sure_. Frustration rises in her. It’s not like she just nearly had a panic attack at his knock. But they _keep_ bringing this up. First Wexley, now him. She’s never what they want. Never right for them. Either too scared or not scared enough. 

“I guess that makes me suspicious?” she shoots back.

“A little.”

She places her hand on her hip and stirs more vigorously. 

“I don’t know what to tell you people anymore. I came looking for safety, and none of you seem to like that I found it. Let me guess, you think I have some ulterior motive. I’m not part of that mob, and these people are trying to _hurt_ me.” 

She huffs loudly, then turns back to Ben, hand still on her hip, pointing at him with her spatula. 

“I’m _relaxed_ because for the first time since they showed up at my house, I feel _safe_.” She’s staring into his eyes, those unsettling eyes that are reading her as much as she’s reading him. She swallows but doesn’t look away. “I left _everything_ in Exegol. I thought I was going to die. But now I’m _here_ and I have _her_ ,”—she points her spatula toward the door, toward the apartment where Gwen is—“and I have _you_ watching me while I sleep like some big asshole guardian angel.”

His face moves quickly, and he bares his teeth in a slight cringe.

“Yeah, about that—“

She rolls her eyes. If she has to put up with the indignity of being watched, he can grow up and talk about it like an adult.

“I _know._ ” She huffs. “You already told me that’s not _exactly_ what you’re doing, but you get the point. What I’m saying is I finally feel _safe._ ”

He holds his hand up toward her, and a slight furrow grows in his brow, even though he straightens as he speaks. 

“And that’s not going to change. We will keep you safe.”

 _Uh oh._ _That’s_ not going to change? So something else is? She’s immediately on edge.

“But..”

_Here it comes._

“Agent Phasma is sick. She has tested positive for Epstein Barr.”

“Is that—“

“Mono. Yes.”

“Oh crap.” Her heartbeat is increasing again. _No, no, no._ She’d just gotten settled. She wanted to go to work. She wanted to—

He holds his hand up, clearly responding to her panic. 

“It’s handled. Agent Storm is already on his way back to join our team for the long term.”

Relief floods her. Oh, this is perfect. He’s an even better fit than Phasma.

She smiles. “Okay. Okay. You really freaked me out for a moment.” She turns back to her meal. “He’ll be great. The kids will love him.”

She hears his throat clear behind her. “Um, he’s not taking Phasma’s assignment.”

She turns slowly.

“He’s taking mine. I’m...I’m taking over as lead agent.” The uncertainty in his voice only worsens the feeling of dread in her chest.

“No,” she says before thinking.

“Yes,” he answers firmly. 

“You?”

“Yes, _me_.” He’s defensive.

Her mouth is open as she stares at him. At the big asshole with unsettling brown eyes. The big asshole with shaggy hair, a tight black t-shirt covering muscular arms. The veritable tree of an asshole that will have to lay on the ground to get eye level with a child. The asshole that snapped at the grocery cashier... _and_ the bagger... _and_ Finn.

“Is there... _anyone_ else?”

He frowns. “No.”

“Are you sure?”

He presses his lips into a thin line, and his jaw works a little. A muscle under his eye tightens. “I’m the only option.”

“But have you ever even done this before? Are you sure Finn—”

He stands abruptly then, leaning on the counter. “The reason _I_ am taking the command and _not_ Storm is because I have much higher security clearance, as well as _significantly_ more experience not only with protecting witnesses but also with maintaining cover— _so if you’re asking, then yes, I’ve done this before!_ ”

What an idiot. “I meant _kids_. Have you ever worked with children?”

His eyebrows rise and eyes widen. “Oh. Oh.” He slowly sinks back to the stool. “Ah, no.” 

She shrugs. “Well you’re not off to a great start, I’ll tell ya that, Agent Solo.” She goes back to her pasta. 

“Ben,” he says quickly, “You can call me Ben.”

She looks over her shoulder at him and nods.

 _Ben_. She tests the sound of his name on her lips privately, into the air over the stove, heat spreading on her cheeks as she does. _It’s just the steam._

“It’s handled.” He sighs and rises. “This is just to loop you in. Phasma can tell me everything I need to know tomorrow.”

Rey’s laugh is like a bark as she covers the simmering skillet with the lid. Reaching to the counter, she grabs her wine glass and takes a long drink. 

“Yeah, sure. A day is all you need. It’s not like people go to school for years and get degrees for this.”

“Well, it’s not like I have that option,” he snaps. “It can’t be that hard.”

Rey raises her eyebrows. “ _Wow_." He really is a big asshole.

She’s used to people insulting her career. No one--and that includes most parents—ever thinks of her as an educator, rather just a glorified babysitter. 

His face does a contortion. 

“Look, I meant—“

“No, I know what you meant. Ben.” She doesn’t say that word as softly as the first time she tried it. 

“Just trust me. I can do this. I can handle this. It’s my job.”

“Oh, I don’t doubt your ability to do the job you’re trained for. What I doubt is your experience with soothing a melting down child. Encouraging emergent literacy.” She looks at his hands with a cocked eyebrow. Large. _Really_ large. The kind of large that is bringing out a flush on her neck. “Zipping tiny zippers. Wiping tiny butts.”

“Oh no.” He’s horrified.

“Oh yes.” A smile splashes over her face immediately at his discomfort. 

“No.” He shakes his head at her. 

“ _Yes_.” 

“They’re four year olds!” His protest is high and desperate. 

A smirk slowly spreads over her face. Maybe this might be okay. For once, she has something that she never has: the upper hand. Expertise. And that feels good. 

“And they’re _still learning_.” She puts her hand on her hip and smiles.

He huffs and crosses his arms where he stands at the edge of her kitchen. Closing his eyes, he breathes through his nose. 

“I can handle it.” 

She’s not sure if he’s telling himself or her.

“You just have to make it until Gwen can take back over.” 

He nods. “Yeah. In about...three to four weeks.”

His face tightens into a wince. Rey feels the expression mirrored on her own.

It’s going to be an interesting month.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Agent Solo is going to put up with a lot for a pretty face. Next we get to watch him suffer some more and meet Poe. Inching our way to the smut.
> 
> I rewrote this chapter rather quickly from the first pass which was written entirely in Ben's POV while I tried to understand Rey a little better. I *think* I like this--For me, Rey is surprisingly hard to write.
> 
> Might be a while before the next post as I have to get back to the real world this week.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My chapter lengths are all over the place. 
> 
> Is this one perfect? No. Is it good enough? Sure. I meant it when I said WIP.

Ben leans against the stairwell door, sipping on the coffee in his travel mug while he waits. He’s already tired, the day hasn’t even _begun_ , and his head is a messy fog.

A fog exacerbated by starting the morning with a sudden and strong exhalation from his mouth that had woken him in the dim light of sunrise. It came from a deep place in his torso, practically forced out of him as if someone was doing CPR compressions on his rib cage. Usually such breathing was the result of a night terror—another condition he now had to keep at bay, like his nicotine addiction—but this time, he didn’t wake in the paralysis of horror or homicidal rage. 

No. This time he released that rush of air as a pair of lips faded into the ether of a dream, and he woke up disoriented with a throbbing erection demanding attention.

He didn’t often dream of sex, and this wasn’t even _sex_ , at least not in the explicit and pornographic way it usually played out in his dreams. This dream was just a heady but simple cocktail of skin touching skin and a mouth on his. 

It _confused_ him.

Because he immediately knew exactly whose mouth it was. Not by the shape, not by the color—he hadn’t even really seen her lips in the dream. But he knew they were hers by the way the rush of air from his body had _almost_ formed a name. 

And it filled him with guilt. And anticipation. 

But even the thought of seeing her mouth again is tempered by the slog of what he’s about to do, and he leans his head back against the cool metal door of the stairwell and stews in his self-pity.

For twelve hours the day before, Rey and Phasma had taken turns alternating through a rotation of instructions for him over the small dining table in Rey’s apartment. Protocol briefings came from Phasma, and that was a breeze. The usual expectations—entrances and exits, time limits in areas, how to handle meals and bathroom breaks, what to do with his firearm. Easy. 

But Rey...he’d pissed her off the night before, and he had a strong suspicion she’d intentionally gone completely academic with him, filling their briefings with jargon of the highest order. He’s pretty sure he only remembers _half_ of it all. Maybe. If he tried. _Really tried_. There was something about emergent literacy? And emotional competencies? ACE stood for something. Something important, he could tell by her face, but right _now_...no fucking idea. He’d put money the C was for “child” though. Or was it “childhood?”

She definitely knew her shit, he had to admit with a grudging respect, and the confidence with which she’d delivered her thesis to him ( _at_ him, really) was probably what had landed her in his dreams, because... _yeah_ . But for fuck’s sake, what was the point of all the theory bullshit? Just keep them fed and keep them from hurting each other, right? What type of spatial reasoning does it take to poke each other with sticks? Plus after all those hours, he _still_ feels like he has no idea what he’s doing, and that is a feeling he _never_ likes. 

Rolling his shoulders, he adjusts his jeans and t-shirt, pulling at the hoodie he’d thrown on for an additional layer of concealment for the firearm at his lower back. The whole outfit feels way too casual for what he remembers about teachers, but Rey had insisted that anything nicer would get uncomfortable or ruined, which only increased his sense of foreboding. How much laundry was he going to have to do? A trip to his condo would be the first order of business on his first day off. He hadn’t packed for _babysitting_ , hadn’t packed for this kind of cover. Hell, it wasn’t supposed to be cover. It was supposed to be--

A soft click down the hall stirs him from his moping, and he looks up, swallowing a scalding mouthful of coffee. Rey is pulling her door shut, dressed in a blue shirt dress over black leggings. Her hair is in a bun, and she smiles at him. He doesn’t return her smile, not really, it’s just a little pull of his lips. As she walks over he’s taken in by the familiar color of the dress, the collar, and the way she’s rolled the cuffs up. He has a shirt _just like_ that--pale blue, small buttons--it would swallow her, too. She’d have to roll the sleeves up her narrow arms—

“Ready?” she asks.

He nods. _Fresh air. Yes._

The walk is short like Phasma had said, but it’s an exposure nightmare--windows everywhere, cars rushing by, public as _hell_ \--and it is decidedly not improving his anxiety about the whole operation. It’s the end of summer too, and he’s hot, but he can’t shed his jacket without risking exposing the firearm strapped to his back, and that is a big _no_. 

“Can you slow down?”

“Oh. Sorry.” He slows his pace, and Rey skips a little to catch up to his side. 

“Your legs are, like, _twice_ as long as mine.” She’s out of breath next to him, panting, and the sound makes his skin way too tight, and now he’s even sweatier. 

“Sorry.” He apologizes again. 

She looks up at him and lifts an eyebrow. “Are you nervous? I thought they trained that stuff out of you.” 

He presses his lips tightly, annoyed. “I’m not nervous. I’m alert. You may be walking to work, but _I’m_ already _at_ work.” 

She smiles, and it’s a mischievous smirk, like she doesn’t feel teased, like she’s in on a joke with him, and it pulls on him. “You _are_ nervous. It’s just kids, Ben.”

His eyes are scanning windows and doorways as they keep walking. He gives an irked huff, but doesn’t say more. It unsettles him how well she can read him. He spent two years in deep cover with one of the most dangerous crime organizations in the country and left on his own terms. Well, if you call a complete mental collapse “your own terms”. Never had his cover blown, though. But Rey...she just, just--

_Hmm._

He’s stomping again, and she’s smoothing her dress over her leggings where it’s ridden up from their pace, and he reminds himself for the _second time_ today that he is a professional and she is his witness. 

The school is in sight now, and the main entrance is mostly empty as they had planned. It’s an hour before start time, and the only people that should be around are staff and faculty. Ben frowns. It’s not empty after all--there is one kid outside the front doors. Platinum blonde with brown skin, in some kind of blue outfit. Probably a girl, but he can’t tell. 

As they get closer, Rey waves. The kid waves back. 

“You know this kid?” Ben asks, scanning around them again. The Palpatine group had used kids before. Diversions always. 

Rey laughs her musical, throaty laugh again. “Ben! _God!_ ” 

And then she does something that nearly stops him in his tracks. 

She puts her hand on his bicep and gently squeezes it. 

Electric tingles, like the white starry bursts from a sparkler, spread in a cascade over his arm. His diaphragm nearly bottoms out, and the weight of what she’s done sinks into the space at the top of his rib cage like a heavy stone. He sucks in a sharp inhale that he prays was quieter than it sounded in his ears. His throat is suddenly tight, and his knees feel like they might buckle.

 _Two years._

No one has touched him like that in at least two years. 

He fucked a few women while undercover. One night stands when he needed to scratch that itch. Urgent, filthy touches with only a single, brief purpose in mind. He shared stupid bro hugs with other criminals and comrades. Stiff handshakes with friends and strangers alike. But never during his last assignment, and not since he reclaimed his real name, has anyone touched him this _gently_. 

_Affectionately_. 

_Playfully._

He swallows and uses all his focus to gather the pieces of himself, shattered like a vase that she just burst apart with only the pressure of her fingers.

“That is _Maz_.” Rey snorts a little when she laughs, and it helps pull off the heavy blanket of his emotions. To his utter and unexpected _devastation,_ she drops her hand from his arm to motion toward the woman. His throat feels dry and thick, and he wants to beg her to touch him again, but he takes a deep breath instead.

 _Focus_ . _Be professional._

“Who? Maz?” He finally speaks. 

_Maz Kanata. Ackbar’s age. Principal. Forty year teaching veteran._ A dossier picture and sheet appear in his mind.

As they approach, he can see the _kid_ clearer now, and yes, the kid is in fact _not_ a child at all but possibly the smallest old woman he has ever seen, dressed in a neatly-tailored blue pantsuit. The blond hair turns out to be a stick-straight white bob framing a coppery face with more wrinkles than an overripe avocado. Her small brown eyes narrow as she stares Ben down. 

“Good morning, Maz,” Rey says cheerfully as they approach. 

“Good morning, Rey.” Maz nods but doesn’t look away from Ben. When they stop in front of her just outside the main door, Maz crosses her arms and purses her lips sourly. 

It’s a less-than-friendly meeting, and suddenly Ben gets what Ackbar might have seen in her. 

“So this is the big guy?”

 _Big guy?_ Sure, but it would take about two Mazes stacked inside a trench coat to come eye to eye with _Rey_ , let alone him. 

“Agent Solo.” He holds out his hand, and as she takes it he feels like he’s shaking hands with a tiny Barbie. No, with _that_ glare, it’s GI Joe. “Nice to meet you.”

She’s frowning at Ben and just _staring_. He feels discomfort building in him under her scowl, a long-buried part of him that he’d left in the echoing halls of a middle school surfacing in his thoughts. Images of principals’ offices. Scratchy green couches. The disappointed sound of his mother’s voice on the phone. The pervasive yet faint smell of bleach water. 

“I’ve got a bad feeling about this,” she says, shaking her head as she releases his hand.

 _Honestly, same,_ he thinks, but he straightens. 

“Agent Phasma and Rey spent yesterday bringing me up to speed.” _Confidence_. He needs to project confidence. 

“Then you know what to do with your”—she waves her hand floppily in the general direction of his belt, as if wafting away an unwelcome stench—“ _thing_.”

His _thing??_

“Your weapon.” She says the word with disdain.

_Sweet Jesus, Maz._

He nods. He isn’t particularly at ease with locking the gun in Rey’s office cabinet while on campus, but it made sense. What’s more important is that he is armed on the exposed commute. And he doesn’t trust kids anyway. 

She’s still staring at him. “Ackbar owes me,” is all she says as she abruptly turns on her heel and walks through the front doors. 

Ben and Rey follow, and when she doesn’t even look back before she turns into her office, they continue down the hallway toward Rey’s classroom.

Seeing the blueprints and standing in a school for the first time in years are too _very_ different things. Agitation is rippling under his skin as they walk down the squeaky linoleum, passing huge bulletin boards with big construction paper shapes and glittered letters stapled to them. Phrases like “Mrs. Taylor’s class is so bright we wear shades!” stapled around a collection of sunglass-covered smiley faces. A cringe rises to his face that originates so deep in his throat it might gag him on the way out.

God, he could die from the secondhand embarrassment. 

_What is he doing here?_ Schools are hellholes. 

He didn’t hate learning—he was a straight A student, top of his class in high school and damn near top in college—but he _hated_ school. School was too much sitting still for too long, too much boredom, and worst of all, too many people who hated different. And Ben has always been different. He is _still_ different. Just standing inside these walls is making him hyper aware of his differences. 

He is _not_ the one for this job. 

They approach a room near the end of the hall, and he knows which one it is before they even get close. Turning by another bulletin board ( _Ms. Rey’s class is full of stars!_ —tolerable), Rey opens her room and flicks on the lights. 

The classroom is an assault of color. Yellow stars hang from strings in a garland that crisscrosses the ceiling. There are two bookshelves full of bright books, and short tables and chairs are spaced all around the floor. Blue and yellow beanbags are stuffed into a corner. A fish tank bubbles and gurgles by the big windows that open onto the courtyard playground. The room is... _cheerful_ , he has to admit. It lifts his mood just a little.

What lifts it _more_ is the smile _she_ makes when the lights come on.

It’s not like the other smiles he has seen— _nothing_ like those smiles. It’s not teasing, or mischievous or drawn to her lips by some joke of Storm’s.

It’s peaceful. _Content_. 

Something he wants desperately to understand. And to see again.

He walks around the room to get his bearings. Most of the room is carpeted except a side area around an L bend. Two more sets of short tables and chairs are there for meals, he assumes, and there are tiny sinks that don’t even come to his knees. Even the tiny little toilet stalls in one corner of the room have bright yellow stars taped to them. He looks into one and cringes. Surely there’s an adult restroom. This would be like trying to piss into a shot glass. In public.

Rey opens the small closet that constitutes her office and tosses her bag inside. Before she walks out she stoops to the bag. Thrusting her arm in, she pulls out a chapstick and starts wiping it over her lips as she looks at Ben. He swallows and reminds himself for the _third time_ that he’s a professional. She points up at a cabinet on the wall and speaks between rubbing and smacking her lips together. “First thing’s first.”

 _Right_. Ben crosses the linoleum to Rey’s office. She walks out to make room for him in the small space and grabs a box of books sitting on a table, balancing it on her hip and walking across the room to a corner with a tiny sofa and bookshelf. 

Ben pulls his eyes away from her to the cabinet in front of him. A small silver key is already in the lock, and he opens the door. It’s a one shelf unit with some books on the bottom. Titles like “The Whole Brain Child” and “The Emotional Life of the Toddler.” _It’s just chaos and destruction—how do you need a whole book for that?_ He slides the belt badge and holster with his firearm off his belt and lays it on the top shelf, a worried line furrowing his brow a little as he feels the cool nakedness of its absence at his lower back. But he locks the cabinet and pockets the key. 

“Hey, you settling in?”

Ben spins on his heel, startled by the male voice. 

A man is leaning against the doorframe, his eyes on Rey, who had crossed the room to the line of blue open cabinets ( _What do they call those things? Cubbies? Right. Stupid word.)._ From the angle of the door to the office, the man can’t see Ben. And Ben is going to keep it that way for the moment.

“Yeah! Thanks! Excited to get started,” Rey answers, smiling. 

The man has dark, short, and slightly curly hair. He’s not tall, but then again, very few people met that standard for Ben. It only takes moments before Ben’s brain places him in the blur of dossier images from the previous day. 

_Dameron, Poe._

He can see his face in the row of headshots from the school website.

_“I did meet this one.” Rey pointed to the face. “At orientation night. Teaches fifth grade science. He’s nice.” She smiled. “I like him.”_

_“Former Air Force. Might be a good one to know.” Phasma had mumbled to Ben._

Poe smiles widely at Rey. “I saw your light on and thought I’d drop in to see if you need anything.” 

Ben is still and silent, taking advantage of his unnoticed presence, but something thorny is weeding its way through his chest.

He watches as Poe runs his hand through his hair. Straightening from the doorway, Poe enters the room as Rey responds. He asks Rey something about whether she found the double-sided tape in the copy room, but Ben isn’t listening to the conversation. 

Because he sees the slight flush at Poe’s neck. The way he orients the plane of his hips toward Rey. The way he leans one forearm against the wall as he talks to her, much closer now, an arm’s reach away. The way his chest is straight and proud. The way he laughs at her joke. The way he looks at her. 

The way he _looks_ at her. 

_“Saw your light on..need anything..” Yeah. Sure._

Rey’s eyes catch Ben’s.

“Oh Poe, this is Ben!” She points, and Poe turns, his face startled when he sees Ben, and satisfaction flares in him at Poe’s reaction. 

_That’s right, asshole._

“Oh! Hi. So you’re her...?” Poe is walking slowly toward Ben.

 _Her boyfriend. Fiancé. Husband._ It’s what Poe is expecting, and it all sounds better than what comes out of Ben’s mouth.

“Aide.”

Poe’s eyebrows lift so high they threaten to leave his forehead altogether. “What? Wow! That is _awesome_.” Relief smooths the lines in Poe’s expression. 

It’s a little too enthusiastic for Ben’s taste, but Poe rushes over to him, extending his hand. “This is really great, man.” He claps his hand into Ben’s, and his grip is firm. Testing. A hotshot’s handshake.

“Really, really great.” He’s nodding a lot and bumps Ben’s other shoulder with his fist. “There aren’t enough men around here. The kids are gonna to eat you up.”

Ben forces a smile, but his mouth feels sour. “Let’s hope,” is all he can muster. 

Poe releases him and turns back to Rey, walking closer to her again. He’s _bold_. And Ben can’t help but feel a little angry and deflated that his presence isn’t continuing to affect Poe the way he wants. 

Poe places a hand on Rey’s shoulder, and Ben’s adrenaline keys up in alarm. His right hand instinctively reaches to his lower back but lands on his shirt. All he can do is pull the key from his pocket instead. It’s practically useless, though--the time alone to get his firearm, and she’d be gone. He doesn’t like this situation. 

“You know where to find me if you need me.” Poe smiles warmly at Rey as he gives her shoulder a slight stroke before releasing it. “Anytime. Don’t be afraid to interrupt.”

Rey nods brightly, and Poe turns to leave, giving Ben a slight wave before walking out the door. 

Ben pockets the key and walks quickly to Rey. 

“You can’t let him touch you.” His voice is a rough whisper, but he’s agitated, and this is too important to waste time trying to smooth its delivery.

She jerks her head back in surprise. “Why?”

“You can’t let _anyone_ touch you.” His eyes bore into hers. He’s very close, in her space, but he needs her to understand how critical this is. “No one can touch you--not unless it’s one of us. You do not know their motives, and neither do we. Back away the next time someone gets close.” 

“Ben, that’s--”

“I’m _serious_. I’m not armed while we’re here, and even if I were, shit can go sideways faster than I can draw.” He realizes he’s pointing an angry finger at her and pulls it down. He can be firm without scaring her. Maybe. “Arms length from others. Always. Do you understand? Please don’t make my job harder.”

She clenches her jaw but nods, narrowing her eyes as she steps away.

Other than to give him instructions, she doesn’t speak to him as they prep the room. His insides churn a little at her icy mood. She’s pissed again, and yeah, he could have at least _tried_ being nicer. _Fuck_ , he’s always been shit at rapport. Every time he starts to get somewhere he ruins it. 

He’s not even sure why he came at her so aggressively. Well that’s not true, but he doesn’t want to interrogate that line of thinking too much. It’s really all on Poe. He shouldn’t be touching coworkers. He frowns as he picks up the marker bin she had directed him to. Certainly she didn’t think Ben was blaming her for the contact. Right? It wasn’t her fault Poe touched her—that’s not how that _ever_ works. But he needs her cooperation to keep her safe. He should definitely clarify that after he’s finished putting the markers on the table. 

But before he can, a quiet voice is at his leg.

“You’re not Miss Rey.”

He jolts out of his thoughts. A small girl with a pale face and two blonde pigtail buns is staring up at him. Her face is scrunched in displeasure.

“No I’m not.” 

“Hi, Kaydel! Good morning!” Rey calls to her from the blue cubbies— _G_ _od, he hates that word. Who came up with that word? It’s the stupidest word he’s ever heard_. “Let’s put your bag and buddy over here, then you can get started with free play time.”

Kaydel bolts away from Ben over to Rey. Ben goes back to placing tiny marker bins, thinking of how he’ll explain to Rey that he knows she has autonomy but he’s only worried about her safety, and within moments the kid is at his leg again.

“Are you a girl?”

“What? No. I’m a boy.”

“But you have long hair.” Her face is scrunched in consideration as she looks up at him. 

“It’s not _that_ long.” It's not like he can put it in a pony tail. Well, not a good one anyway.

“It’s longer than my mommy’s.”

“Boys can have long hair, and girls can have short hair.” He tries to say it as slowly and patiently as he can, but it sounds more defensive than he wants. What did Rey say yesterday about gender identity development? _Shit_.

“They thought my cousin was a boy when she was born but she’s really a girl. Sometimes you can change.” The new voice comes from the other leg, and Ben twists and looks down to find a sour-faced red-headed boy. 

“Um yeah. That is true.” Ben winces. What the _fuck_? How have they already waded into this gender territory in five minutes?

“Unless you’re a crocodilian or a cephalopod. They can’t decide like that.” The red-headed boy frowns and clutches harder on the purple fuzzy octopus in his hands. “Are you a cephalopod in disguise?”

What the hell is a cephalopod?

“Um no. I am a man. A human man.” He feels heat growing on his neck. Justifying his gender _and_ his species now?!

“Armitage! Time to put your things away!”

 _Armitage_ runs to the cubbies. 

Kaydel is still eyeing him suspiciously under little pale eyebrows as she takes a seat at the tiny table. Uncapping a marker forcefully, she jabs it onto a blank paper, blunting the tip while _still_ eyeing Ben, and for a moment he’s back in the basement of a pub, watching someone stab a switchblade into a wooden table.

And he might have been _less_ scared then.

 _Goddamn_.

The children start filing in quickly now, brought in from drop-off by a part-time assistant Jess that he barely has a moment to meet, and suddenly he’s fucking _surrounded_. He moves over to the cubbies with Rey to help her, _not_ because he needs backup. Definitely not. 

He and Rey get bags and stuffed animals packed away, and he has to crouch to do it all, which is a mistake because now he’s almost eye-level with the kids. He endures another barrage of questions and comments.

“What’s your name?”

“You’re big!”

“Can I see your watch?”

“My bag is a Paw Patrol bag because I like Chase, but my brother likes--”

“Don’t put Rosie there! She likes to be at the top of the cubby!”

_Jesus Christ, what has he done?_

The volume in the room has reached the decibel of a packed bar, and even though the pitch of the tiny voices is higher, much like a bar there are little eruptions here and there of laughter or yelling. There’s an even dozen of them and he can’t tell most of them apart. Armitage and a little brown-headed boy whose name might start with B (or S?) are fighting over a marker. Kaydel is clinging to his leg, trying to climb him like a monkey on a palm tree. Ben tries to pry her loose with one hand while he holds a backpack in the other and watches the chaos unfold, and he wonders how anyone in their right mind could _choose_ a job like this. 

A couple of loud musical notes suddenly fill the air. He snaps his head toward the source.

Rey is standing in the middle of the room, holding a little brown ukulele. She’d left him at some point and reappeared like a genie. 

_“It’s time to start our day, it’s time to start our day…”_

Her singing fills the air, and the kids drop everything they are doing and run over to the circle rug where Rey is standing, jostling each other as they find seats on the stars that Ben is just noticing. 

_Barely_ noticing. Because he can’t stop watching her, and his mouth _may_ have fallen open. She’s strumming and singing softly to them. He’s half-crouched and frozen, hand still clutching a tiny backpack, unable to move as he processes that she may, _in fact_ , be a genie. Or a siren. Something magical. And beautiful.

 _“And maybe Ben will come and help me. And maybe Ben will help.”_ She sings and looks at him, raising an eyebrow. 

_Shit. Right._ He throws the backpack into the cubby as all the kids giggle and turn and look at him. He feels a flush rise up from his chest that spreads all the way to his ears. 

He regretfully, and _eagerly_ , walks toward her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, Agent Solo is really in trouble, isn't he?
> 
> I have this ongoing headcanon that touch is just a huge deal to Ben (I mean, I'll pour a clear liquor drink and argue with you all night that it's canon from TLJ, but that's neither here nor there). He's been so isolated and alone for so long (at least in this fic) that just something simple and playful--not even sexual--would break him. I tried to play with that touch-starved idea in this story--part of the reason Rey breaks through his walls is her affection. It's not just the sex--that's coming (ha!)--but it's the warmth, the tenderness, and caring. 
> 
> And she calls him by his real name. (Again, you can thank TLJ for that...*sips G&T*)
> 
> Also, we're about to hit some of my less-complete, bumpier sections that are mostly outlines at this point. We'll see how well I can shape them into something tolerable enough to post.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am totally floored by the positive responses to my first chapters. I posted this hoping maybe three or four people would read it and that I would get a little motivation to continue writing and...holy smokes. Thank you so much for your kudos and comments about the big asshole and his sweet witness. I hope you continue to enjoy it. 
> 
> I had terrible writer's block for the next few chapters, but I worked my way to something tolerable and have the next few in the chute and ready to go with some editing. Hopefully it's smoother sailing from here.

_Tired._ He’s never been so fucking drained. He can’t even think past that word, repeating itself in his mind like a skipping record. _Tired. Tired. Tired._ Too tired to even fit an “I am” in front of the word. Did this day even happen? Had he even been present in his body? At the beginning of his leave the Bureau counselor had diagnosed him quickly with PTSD-- _resolved and managed quite well, thank you very much_ \--but even still, he’s not sure if he’s ever felt so damn _shell shocked_.

 _Thank Christ,_ the apartment is close. Outside the school entrance, Rey had released her hair from her bun, letting it fall and shake into gentle waves, relaxation on her face. She’s keeping pace with him now, smiling and staying at his side without effort. Maybe she’s taking longer strides.

More likely he’s dragging his body down the road. 

Quickly, he does his best to scan the office buildings and apartments surrounding them. This would be the perfect time to attack her. He’s too exhausted and numb to react fast enough. _This_ is the part of the day when she’s most vulnerable. He needs to find a way to perk up—afternoon coffees maybe, though he _really_ wishes it could be a cigarette. 

_Oh god, he’ll have to do this again tomorrow_. 

The thought pulls him into a mope. A mood that isn’t improved when he suddenly remembers the voicemail he’d gotten while they were sorting out colored wooden shapes for some kind of pattern matching exercise. Another thing that he’s been told is “enriching” but really just means another damn mess to clean up after the tiny, vicious little velociraptors rip through it. He hadn’t been able to find two free minutes to himself to even take a piss, let alone listen to a voicemail, but luckily-- _if you could call it luck_ \--he’d forgotten that for a job like this he’d need to oh, you know, _pack a damn lunch_ , so he’d managed to listen while he waited inside the school entrance for a sandwich delivery.

_“Hi Mr. Solo, this is Satine again with Mandalore Group Realty. We’ve had some interest in the Chandrila house on the MLS, so let’s move forward with an open house this Saturday. I’m thinking ten to noon. The Chandrila farmer’s market is that morning so there will be a lot of visibility for the sign. Like I said, it’s a real gem, and I think we can get an offer on it quickly. Let me know your thoughts.”_

He hadn’t called her back. He’d had the time while he waited--he could have done it. Instead he’d just stared at the number on the screen thinking about empty rooms and a window that still had a hairline crack from the rock he’d thrown when he was ten. 

It was time though. He had to do it. What would he even do with a big empty house in the historic district?

A small snorting laugh comes from his shoulder, and he startles a little, drawn from the gray fog of his thoughts.

“What?” he asks, already feeling sorry for himself before she answers. 

Lips pressed together, she’s fighting a smile and possibly more laughter. “Oh, nothing. Just thinking about the day.” 

He huffs. “I know. This was a huge mistake.”

“No!” She says quickly, and her fingers reach out and brush his forearm. He’s pushed his sleeves up, so she makes contact with his skin this time. The pads of her fingers are soft and surprisingly cool, but send little electric pricks up his arm to his chest. It doesn’t devastate him like the first time--she’d touched him a few more times that day, clearly a habit of hers--but he still breathes in deeply through his nose.

Because _, damn_ , he wants her to do it again, and in his head he has a fleeting vision of empty rooms in a big white house filled with furniture, a closet full of blue shirt dresses. He purses his lips and moves his jaw as he wipes the image quickly from his mind. _Ridiculous._

“No. You’ll be fine,” she says. “The first week is the hardest. You just need to find your groove.”

It sounds a little like she’s soothing him—the pitch and cadence of her voice close to the one he heard her use on Armitage. That was after the trip on the playground, when the kid sat on the ground, palms scraped and crying, and Rey squatted next to him and rubbed his back until he wanted a hug. It irks Ben how much it works to soothe him, _an adult man_. 

Grunting a little, he tries to push away thoughts of her soft hands rubbing his back, too. 

“It’s been months since I was this tired. How do you do this everyday?” _This is why she’s so skinny and fit,_ he thinks. She probably burns four thousand calories a day trying to keep up with these maniacs. 

She smirks again, and he knows it’s because he’s eating his words. “I told you—the first week is the worst. You’ll get used to it.”

He clears his throat. “Sorry about the swearing,” he mumbles through a wince.

_“Ah shit” hissed through his teeth as his big clumsy fingers dropped a tiny cup of milk._

_“Fucking hell” through a quick huff as he narrowly avoided Kaydel careening through the playground on a balance bike._

_“Jesus Christ” under his breath as Armitage had asked if Lightning McQueen had a penis._

Rey’s grin is full and wide now, and if she keeps smiling like that, maybe he wouldn’t mind the embarrassment.

“Fudge. Heck. Gosh darn. Cheese and crackers.” When she looks up at him her bright eyes are crinkled. “That will get you started. It takes practice to code switch to kid talk.”

They’ve reached the big blue-gray apartment building now, and she punches in the key code on the little silver pad. A green light blinks.

“Give yourself a break, Ben. You need a drink. A drink always helps.” Pulling open the glass door, she looks back at him. He grabs the edge above her head to open it wider, but she stops at the threshold and doesn’t enter, so he nearly collides into her. Suddenly, they’re very close.

“I have wine?” Her eyes are big and bright, and her head is cocked slightly to the side, exposing a path along her neck that he can’t help but scan. 

_This is a very bad idea_. He purses his lips.

“Whiskey?” She draws up one corner of her mouth in scrunched consideration and points at him with her finger. “ _You_ seem like a whiskey dude.”

_Yes, but—_

“I can’t. On duty.” He hates this operation. _Hates it._ What he loves is whiskey. What he would love _more_ is to have a whiskey with a pretty woman. A pretty woman that somehow isn’t his witness anymore. 

“Ah, yeah, I guess so,” she says with a sigh as she finally enters the building and starts bounding up the stairs with far too much energy. On the first landing she turns to look down as he drags his miserably tired body up the staircase, suppressing a groan on each step. _Goddamn gravity._

“Are you _ever_ off duty? How does that even work?”

Narrowing his eyes at her, he quickly looks around. It’s normal to be curious, but they shouldn’t talk freely in the open like this. An intent stare and slight head shake is enough to communicate it. Her mouth forms a small _oh_ that makes his clothes feel too tight again. 

_Sorry_ , she mouths. He points upward, and she obeys, quickly turning and hurrying up. When they finally get to the third floor corridor, she speaks again.

“I’m serious about the whiskey, though. If you want one.”

He smirks a little. “Do you have a full bar in there?”

“Ha!” It’s that musical laugh and big smile again. “No, so don’t get excited. It’s just some wine and whiskey. Oh, and a bottle of gin, but I forgot to buy any tonic.” She cringes. “And it’s not even _nice_ whiskey, if I’m being honest. Teacher, remember?” she says, pointing to herself. “I only buy the nice stuff at Christmas.” 

She sighs. “Ah, I’ve totally spoiled it. I’m rescinding my offer. I’d be embarrassed for you to see now.”

Her fingers are pulling at the belt on her dress. Fidgeting. Uncomfortable. His hand rises to cup her shoulder and reassure her, but he draws it back. 

He can’t touch her. Shouldn’t touch her.

“Don’t apologize.”

“Um, did you hear a ‘sorry’ in there?” She tilts her head at him, lips slightly pursed and eyebrows high, daring him to answer her. “I’m not _apologizing_ for anything. I’m just rescinding my invitation, Benjamin Oscar.” 

And then, _god help him,_ she sticks her tongue out at him.

He laughs suddenly, loudly, and it surprises even him. The laugh is creaky and unused, straining the muscles in his face.

She smiles again, much wider this time.

He shakes his head. “You’re down to eight now.” He draws his key out of his pocket, but his smile is still on his face. She crinkles her nose in frustration. 

“For the best really. Oscar doesn’t suit you.”

He chuffs another small laugh, and it feels like a pressure in his chest is easing.

“What _does_ suit me?”

She taps her lips thoughtfully with her index finger, and he loves the way it makes his body feel, then hates himself for feeling it. Her lips pull high to one side of her face, the skin near her eye crinkling mischievously as she does it, and heat rushes to his neck. “I’ll let you know when I figure it out.” 

He clears his throat, looking away at the closed apartment door to break her gaze and clear his head. “I’m going to check on Phasma—make sure she’s eaten. But if you need anything, just call.”

“Is Finn there?” she asks quickly, eyes bright, smile still on her face. 

_His_ smile fades. “Yeah, he’s probably still sleeping to get ready for his night shift. Why?”

“Just curious.” She shrugs, then looks up at him through her lashes. “I guess he’s on duty too?” The pitch of her voice rises in hopefulness. 

Ben nods firmly. Because even if Storm _isn’t_ on duty, he’s _not_ telling her. For professional reasons, of course. 

She shrugs again, and her face changes—the playfulness and joking gone and replaced with a disappointment that Ben recognizes _instantly_. 

Because he’s seen it before in the mirror. 

She smiles at him again, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “Okay. Well, if I need anything I’ll call.” She turns abruptly then, keying into her apartment. “Have a good evening, Agent Solo.”

_Wait. Why is she—_

But before he can correct her, the door is shut behind her, and he’s left staring at a closed gray slab while he listens to a deadbolt click. He frowns, and turns, keying into his own apartment, deep in thought as he considers the distance she just put between them.

_No, call me Ben._

“Well, if it isn’t emo Mr. Rogers himself.” Phasma chuckles from the living room as he locks the door behind him.

“I am not in the mood, Phasma.”

He goes immediately to the kitchen and starts opening cabinets. “Do we not have any fucking whiskey here?”

“Of course not. Was it _that_ bad?” 

Grabbing a consolation water bottle from the fridge, he groans and moves to meet her in the living room where she’s wrapped in a blue blanket on the gray couch, just her shock of platinum blonde hair all that’s visible. The TV remote is in her hand, and some home renovation show is playing on the screen. One of the obnoxious ones with a far too chirpy wife and Neanderthal husband just looking for something to smash. Slowly, he lowers himself to the floor and splays his body against the carpet. 

He might never get up again. 

“How much did you sleep today?” He groans. “Please tell me you are getting better so you can take over tomorrow.” He doesn’t open the bottle but instead places the cold plastic against his forehead, letting the chill wash over his skin. 

“Solo, I still have a fever.” Lips in a thin line, she looks down at him and shakes her head. “My god, you did two years of deep cover with the Palpatine empire, and you’re telling me one day in pre-K has _broken_ you? Goddamn, are you _‘too old for this shit?’”_

He sighs. “I’m thirty two. So yeah, I guess I am.”

The door to a bedroom clicks open, and a freshly-showered Storm walks into the hallway. 

“Oh!” he says, looking down at Ben, a white towel tied around his waist. “Hey Solo.” He steps around Ben’s feet to get to the kitchen. 

Pouting, Ben considers him a moment. He’s trim and athletic, not bulky like a damn refrigerator. Storm can probably fit comfortably in an airplane seat. _And_ run circles around Ben on a basketball court and render his height strategically worthless. Hadn’t Storm played a sport? _Oh yeah, wide receiver, D2 college ball. And he’s under thirty._

No wonder Rey likes him. 

Ben grunts and readjusts the water bottle to lay over his eyes, the cold plastic cooling his burning and tired lids.

“So how did it go?” Storm is cheerful, _like fucking always._

“Can’t you tell?” Phasma asks with a snicker, no doubt pointing at Ben, who ignores her.

Storm laughs and Ben considers launching the water bottle at him and enjoys a brief daydream of the sound and bounce the bottle would make off Storm’s head. “Man, kids can wear you out. Love ‘em though. Definitely a little jealous of you. Better than watching screens all night.”

_And Storm loves kids too. Fuck, he’s perfect for her._

He makes an angry grunt in Storm’s general direction, but he is already back in the room they’re sharing—Storm sleeping there during the day and Ben sleeping there at night while Phasma sicks up the second bedroom with her plague. She’d refused to go home to Rose, claiming she’d be more useful if she stayed. Now he’s suspecting she was here just so she could enjoy watching his misfortune first hand.

“Seriously though,” Phasma pokes his chest with her foot, and he growls at her. “How did it go? I’m submitting the report in a couple hours; I need your notes.”

“Phas, I will do it,” he groans. “I’m agent-in-command.”

“You’re an agent in need of a nap, is what you are. I can handle it. It’s an easy contribution I can make.” 

He hears her rustle around on the couch then click open her laptop. _Okay, fine,_ maybe she wasn’t just here to watch him suffer. Just this once he could let her do this. Just this once. 

“Start talking, and I’ll type.”

...

He’s not sure when he fell asleep. And he’s not sure why they just left him there rather than wake him, but by the time he opens his eyes again, he’s parched and starving. The living room is dark with the exception of a warm yellow light from the kitchen competing with the white-blue glow from the computer monitors Storm is sitting in front of. 

Something smells delicious. 

He moans as he sits up, every muscle stiff and creaking, and uncaps the bottle next to him, chugging the now warm water until it’s drained. Storm swivels in his big black chair to face him. 

“Morning, sleepy bear.”

“Storm, I will kick you off this operation, I swear to god—“

“Okay! Okay!” Storm raises his hands, palms out. “Sorry for trying to keep the mood light. This isn’t exactly my favorite thing to do, you know.” He motions to the screens. “I’ve been entertaining myself by trying to lip read what’s on her TV.”

“How long did I sleep?” Ben rubs his eyes then runs his hand through his hair. 

“‘Bout an hour and a half.” A loud crunch comes from Storm as he pops a pork rind in his mouth from the bag in his lap--the kimchi flavored ones. The ones _Ben_ picked out. 

He really is going to kick him off the case. As soon as Phasma is well enough, Storm is going back to the office. Or to a big farm upstate.

“What is she watching?” he asks as he stands and lumbers to the kitchen, following the smell. 

“ _The Crown_. We started watching it while she was at the safe house. Pizza will be done in about ten.”

He’s surrounded by the delicious aroma as soon as he enters the kitchen. Storm’s voice follows him from the living room. “I added extra garlic and red pepper because DiGiorno makes a good crust but shitty spice mix, so _you’re welcome.”_

Okay, maybe Storm could stay a bit longer.

When the pizza is finished, he brings a quarter of it to Storm, ignoring the burning of the grease on his fingers and mouth as he takes a bite of his own on the walk back from the kitchen. Storm looks with raised eyebrows at the huge triangle of pizza on the plate Ben is holding out to him. Ben swallows a far too large mouthful, and it burns on the way down. 

“Sorry.” He swallows again. “Is that too much? That’s what I usually start with.”

“I bet,” Storm laughs. “Good thing Phasma is asleep already. She probably eats just as much as you do.” He takes the plate from Ben.

Ben glances at the monitor and feels a hot flush as he sees Rey’s grainy form laid out on the couch, tank top and black leggings all she is wearing. There’s a pillow under her head and one arm thrown over it as she lays on her side, and he can see all the soft curves of her body. He swallows thickly. 

Storm clears his throat. “So, I have a really weird question. But I’m gonna ask it.” He pauses for an awkward moment. “What happens if she has a _friend_ over?” The implication is clear.

“She won’t,” Ben snaps. 

“I mean, I know that she knows where the cameras are. And we don’t have a camera in her bedroom and bathroom, but what if—“

“I told you, she won’t.”

“I’m just saying,” he takes a large bite of pizza but continues speaking while he chews. “The sound alarms are set to go off at the decibel of a yell, would it pick up, you know, _that?_ Actually—”

“She’s not bringing anyone over.” _Storm needs to shut up. Right now._

“—I guess the mics won’t pick it up unless it’s particularly, uh, _vigorous_ , or something. Some people are loud. I mean—“

Ben feels that familiar heat flare along his ribs. He lays a withering glare on him and interrupts him. “ _Storm_ . Where are you going with this? Got _plans_ _?”_

“No!” Storm swallows hard and chokes a little on his pizza. He coughs and sputters and clears his throat, wiping his eyes. “No, no, _no way._ Just, ah, I mean, if she brought someone home, what am I supposed to do? They didn’t tell me. And she’s nice. I don’t want to...you know, _spy_.”

Ben throws the hand that isn’t holding a plate in the air in irritation. _Fucking amateur hour in here._ “That is _literally_ what we are doing. That is _literally_ the job we do. What do you think undercover work is?” 

“Geez. _Alright_. Sorry I asked!” Storm holds his palms up in surrender. “Phasma and Ackbar didn’t tell me what to do if that happens, so I don’t know the protocol! She’s a single girl—shit happens! I just want to cover my ass and not get accused of being a creep.”

“This is _already_ a pretty creepy conversation.”

Storm frowns at him.

“Look,” Ben sighs, and maybe he’ll keep Storm around just for practice because it’s like explaining things to a damn _child_. “She isn’t going to have guests. She’s been warned that she can’t even stand close to others, and she can’t allow anyone to touch her that isn’t one of _us_. Doubt she’s bringing anyone home under those conditions.”

 _That would...complicate things._ His stomach roils at the thought, and he _knows_ what the feeling is, but refuses to name it. 

Finn nods. “Okay. Moot point then. Sucks though.”

Ben feels heat flare around his face. Even good pizza isn’t enough to make him tolerate Storm’s obvious disappointment about not getting to fuck her. If _he_ isn’t allowed to feel... _ways,_ then Storm sure as shit isn’t. 

“ _What_ sucks?” He asks bluntly, angrily. 

Pointing at the lithe form on the couch, Storm sighs quietly, frowning. 

“This does. For _her…_

“She’s lonely.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Will the mics pick THAT up, Finn? Gosh, I don't know, is that...is that...fOrEsHAdOwiNG?
> 
> I am not subtle, y'all. Fair warning. 
> 
> Let's see how this whole thing is going for Miss Rey. Hope you're ready for in-class time and watching a big asshole eating more of his words.


	6. Chapter 6

The door clicks shut behind her and he looks toward her from where he’s leaning against the wall. Same spot as yesterday. Same black t-shirt and gray hoodie. He’s positively  _ hang-dog _ . The dread of another day is on his face.

Is she enjoying this?  _ Maybe. _

_ Schadenfreude _ . That’s the word for it. She’d heard it once on NPR and had looked it up. She liked that word. Maybe she should have minored in German instead of Spanish. 

On second thought, no, she certainly used the Spanish more.

_ ¿Oso pardo, Oso pardo, Qué ves ahí? _

Well, this big ole brown bear was certainly seeing how much he’d underestimated her job. 

_ Schadenfreude. _

“Good morning!” She smiles cheerfully as she approaches him. 

Straightening, he runs his hand through his hair—a nervous gesture she’s beginning to recognize--leaving his black waves tousled. They aren’t even in sight of the school, and he’s already anxious. She doesn’t hide her smile.

“Morning,” he answers grimly, opening the stairwell door for her and following her closely. 

The gray Converses she’s wearing with her green wrap dress and leggings don’t make much sound on the stairs, but his booming footfalls echo around her. 

“Ready for another day?” 

He groans a little. “I spent an hour last night googling antibody treatments for mono so Phasma could recover faster.” They step out of the apartment building and into the noise of the road. “She yelled and threw a pillow at me when I told her I’d drive her to get one.”

Rey smirks. 

“So, no. Not ready. But I’m here.”

Playfully, she bumps her shoulder into his arm. It’s firm and solid, and she swallows thickly as she rebounds. He’s not her friend. He’s basically her bodyguard. She should stop doing that. Stop touching him. 

But she doesn’t want to. 

_ It’s just because I’m lonely. _ That’s what this is about. And that’s why she wanted him to come over for a drink. The only reason why. 

“I told you it will get easier.” She’s keeping apace with him better this morning. He’s still worn out. 

Ben purses his lips. “You keep saying that, but I think I’m  _ more _ tired today.”

“Meh.” She shrugs. “You’ll recharge over the weekend. There’s about a ten day learning curve before your body gets used to it. It’s like training for a race.”

Ben looks down at her with a curious scrunch on his face. Yesterday had been gray, threatening rain that never showed. But today is sunny, and in the bright light of the morning, there is a glint of gold in his irises she hadn’t noticed before. Staring into his eyes makes her heart dip in her chest and blood rush to her ears, so she looks away quickly. 

“You run?” His tone is surprised.

Maybe she should be a little offended, but her mind doesn’t make space for that emotion when it fills her instead with the sorrow of what her life is now. Of what had changed. Of what she’d left behind. Images of parks and trails. The sidewalk in the neighborhood where she lived with her grandfather--maybe not her biological one, but the only man she’d ever honor with that word. In her mind she can even see her favorite maple tree that she would run past on her usual loop, whose colors she always noted as they came and went each year. 

She looks ahead into the distance. “Used to.”

His eyes are still on her, but she doesn’t look back at him. “Ah,” he says quietly.

She doesn’t offer further explanation, and she thinks maybe with him she doesn’t need to. Maybe he’s quiet because he understands.

“There’s a treadmill downstairs in the gym. We can patch into the cameras. You could—“

“It’s not the same,” she interrupts him.

“It’s not.” His acknowledgement is so immediate it catches her off guard. She looks at him quickly. He’s frowning a little. “I don’t know how to fix this for you, but I’ll work on it.”

He’s picked up his pace again, and she’s walking much quicker. That’s why her “Thank you,” is so breathy.  _ Definitely why. _

By the time they get to the classroom and get settled she’s feeling perky. Alert but calm. Happy. 

This is so much better than those weeks in the safe house. 

This career had been everything to her. In a room like this was where she felt happy. A place that kept the ugliness of the world out. A place of nurturing, of loving, of learning and playing. A place where she could dole out love, and it would be returned. 

It’s a feeling that is clearly not shared by her new...partner. 

“Okay, same routine as yesterday.” She brushes her hands together and pulls a big box from one of the shelves.

“Same chaos, you mean,” he grumbles.

She smirks. “There’s joy in the chaos, Ben.”

“There’s a  _ backache _ .”

She rolls her eyes. “I told you what to do about Kaydel.”

_ Oh, Kaydel.  _ Of course, you’re never supposed to have favorites, but this kid was well on the way to becoming one of Rey’s favorites. Watching her turn that big moody federal agent into her personal climbing gym had been the  _ highlight _ of Rey’s day. Possibly week. 

_ “Why? Why does she keep doing this?” he asked, as Kaydel worked her way up his back as he was crouched.  _

_ “Because you let her.” _

_ “Don’t you teach these kids about consent?” _

_ “Yes. So use that, Ben.” _

Rey nearly snorted just thinking about how he shook his head, black hair swinging as he rolled his shoulders to loosen the child-shaped barnacle on his shirt.

_ “Kaydel, I do not consent! I do not consent!” _

He couldn’t  _ possibly _ be more awkward.

Huffing, the big pouty agent takes the box of magnatiles she’s holding out for him. He shakes his head a little as he speaks, and his voice is pitched high with anxiety. “She’s  _ unstoppable _ . She just keeps going. Like the Energizer bunny. Or the terminator…The  _ Kayminator _ .”

Rey laughs loudly, and she sees even  _ his _ lips turn up. 

“That,” she says, laughing and pointing at him, “ _ that’s _ what you need more of.”

“What? Nicknames?” He scrunches his face.

“No, dummy,  _ joy _ . That’s what the kids have. That’s what they want.  _ Just let go, Ben.” _

His face turns dark as he looks at her, a mood she can’t read crossing over it, and her palms suddenly feel slippery on the tray of LEGOs she’s pulling off the shelf now. Closing the gap between them, she steps carefully forward as she cranes her neck up to look at him. His lips press together, and she sees the subtle movement of his jaw from side to side, as if about to speak but working up to it. 

“Miss Rey!” 

Ben’s eyes widen, and the line of his lips thins and tightens.

“Kaydel!” Rey says happily, grin spreading over her face.

_ “Kayminator,”  _ Ben mouths. Rey laughs.

He smirks.

_ He should stop doing that, _ she thinks as she takes Kay’s backpack and helps direct her to a station. Because the creases in his cheeks are too right not to touch. The crinkle of his eyes too beckoning. And now she’ll spend the next hour trying to coax another smile onto that face to watch how it plays against the beauty marks dotted there. 

That is until she’s downright  _ annoyed _ with him again. 

_ “Ben, can you help Armitage with that?” _

_ “Ben, I need those water cups ready for snack.” _

_ “Ben, don’t read it so fast. Slow down!” _

_ “Ben, don’t let Kay climb that tree--you’re supposed to be watching!” _

Of course, it had been adorable at first--watching him try to help Cara with the Legos, those giant hands rendered useless by the little plastic pieces. Giant hands that make her feel warm and inverted in her core if she stares at them too long. But the uselessness is getting old, and she’s starting to feel like she’s living in a bad sitcom with an idiot dad and an exhausted mother.

And by day  _ four _ , nothing has improved. Now she’s well and  _ truly _ irritated. Everyone has a hard time at first. She  _ meant _ that when she said it to him. Her first few weeks had been exhausting.

But this big asshole…

This big asshole still isn’t  _ trying _ . And that’s the problem. It’s the attitude. Learning is hard--she’s an educator for crying out loud, she knows this. But learning requires  _ trying.  _ This big asshole is just a moping obstacle that has to constantly be told what to do. He’s impatient and volatile. He’s in a perpetual state of annoyance, every walk home at the end of the day a miserable drag. He could ask her for help, ask her for advice, but he won’t. Because he’s too damn proud, and she knows it. 

She’s starting to dislike this  _ tree _ , no matter how thick his biceps are under his black t-shirt, which is apparently the only color he owns since she’s seen the same outfit four days in a row. 

Suits his surly mood.

He seems like he’s about to snap, wound as tight as a rubber band, but  _ truthfully _ she might beat him to it. 

She’s been watching Armitage follow Ben, more so today than the previous days. Ben has been trying to shake him, but Armitage is persistent, his mouth moving quickly. Armitage is indiscriminate in the target of his conversation--Ben’s face is best, but he’ll settle with talking to Ben’s side or back. Probably about animals if she had one guess. Ben’s patience is wearing thin though--she can see it. He finally finds Rey in a rare solitary moment as they prepare for snack time. 

“Alright, I can’t take it anymore. What’s his deal?” he whispers with impatience and frustration in his voice. 

“His  _ de al ?” _

“Yeah, his deal.”

“They’re kids, Ben, they don’t have ‘deals’” She doesn’t hide her annoyance. 

He rolls his eyes a little “You know what I mean.”

“Do I?” She turns to him. “Or are you asking me to tell you about his personality and interests? His development?”

He rolls his eyes. “Fine. Yes, that.” 

She gives a long sigh. “His parents are entomologists at the university. He loves animals. He’s incredibly bright, but he has struggled with social development and social integration. He’s still learning social cues, but his mind is--” 

“Okay, so how do I make him stop?” He groans as he interrupts her. She presses her lips.

“Stop, what?” 

He pouts at her. 

“Talking.  _ At  _ me.  _ Constantly _ . Do you know what a lepidopteran is? Because he’s been talking to me about them for the past five minutes, and I’m  _ still _ not sure, but I know they are different from a terrapin, which I have recently learned is a type of turtle, of which he has either zero or many, I honestly have no  _ fudging _ clue. Because it is a literal stream-of-consciousness expulsion of word diarrhea.” He raises his hands in exasperation.

She shrugs. “Yeah, sounds about right. He’s four, and he loves animals.” What did he expect? She goes back to putting the wooden pieces of the skeleton puzzle back into its box. 

He gapes at her, mouth open and irked that she doesn’t see a problem. “So, how do I make him  _ stop _ ?” 

“Why don’t you try making a connection with him instead?” She asks, mimicking the pitch of his own whine.

He rolls his eyes at her. 

_ “Ben!” _

“Never mind, I’ll find a way to cope.” He stomps off. 

And of course there’s the bathroom, and that’s when she hits her limit. Rey hears the arguing, the distressed tones in Beau’s voice drawing her attention.

“Just do it yourself.” Ben whines at him, leaning against the wall across from the toilet stall with his arms tucked firmly across his chest. 

“I can’t! What if I get poop on my hands?” Beau wails. 

Ben balks, dark brows knit. “What if I get poop on  _ my _ hands?”

“Ben,  _ just do it _ .” She’s fed up and puts her hands on her hips, blocking the path out of the bathroom. She and the assistants have been doing  _ all  _ of the bathroom duties  _ all  _ week. He’s not getting out of this one. Not anymore. 

“Why?” He flops his arms out to his side in indignation.

“Because you are  _ a gosh darn aide _ ,”--she will not let this man drive her to swearing in front of the kids, she _ fucking will not _ \-- “and it’s your  _ job _ .” 

Swallowing, she squares her feet. She won’t let his gaze unsettle her this time. Glaring into those brown eyes, she hisses angrily at him in a whisper. “Or are you  _ above _ this? Above  _ caring _ for someone else?” 

His eyes narrow at her, and he steps closer, leaning down near her face. “I  _ do _ care for other people.” His voice is low and a little husky. Her throat and diaphragm clench as if to take in a sharp breath, and it takes all her effort to resist. “But I  _ don’t _ wipe asses.” 

_ “Miss Rey--” _

_ “Just wait, Beau!” _ Her voice is shrill. 

Though she tries to control it, her whisper is getting louder. “This is a  _ way _ of caring for someone! What are you going to do if you have your  _ own _ kids?” She steps even closer to him, pointing at his face. “Make your future  _ wife _ do it? Sexist much?”

A flash of emotions crosses his face then, and she almost falters, biting her lip. That was overstepping. She didn’t know anything about him really. Did he already have kids? Have a wife? Why had she assumed  _ n ot ?  _

Well, a major clue is his obvious hang-up with caregiving, but a little bit of it is wishful thinking, if she’s being honest. His eyes search hers, moving back and forth in tiny motions as his lips work in and out of a furious pout. A long moment passes before he finally steps back and shakes his head, waving his hand dismissively. 

“That’s not...that’s not really…” He pulls his bottom lip into his mouth, biting it, a tense furrow on his face. 

He doesn’t correct her.  _ Interesting. _

She stands there staring at him, hands held up and out in a gesture of expectation. _“_ _ Well? ” _

His mouth works, and he narrows his eyes--if he could shoot lightning from them, she’d be electrocuted, surely--but he turns...

And  _ does it. _

“Thanks!” Beau bolts out of the stall to the sink, bouncing cheerfully and singing as he washes, completely unaware of what he’s just asked a high-clearance special agent with the Federal Bureau of Investigation to do. Ben simply frowns and shakes his head at Rey as he passes her to wash his own hands. 

“I hope you’re happy.” He mutters through gritted teeth. 

“I’m  _ very _ happy.” She gives him a smug grin with a tilt of her head. 

_ About damn time.  _

Of course, the frown he leaves the bathroom with stays plastered on his face. He’s frowning again now while he arranges the cots for nap time with Jessika. A string of insults is forming in her mind as she watches him, even though her mouth is moving as she reads to the circle of kids in front of her. She has this one memorized-- _ The Gruffalo _ is probably her favorite to read aloud--but even this story can’t lift the sour frustration that has settled on her. 

When the room is dimmed, no sounds but quiet breathing over the yoga music playing, she tiptoes through the maze of cots and quietly opens her side office. 

It’s a closet really, with the smallest desk and stiff chair, but it’s hers, and she can sit and eat and work. She leans over to the little black fridge in the corner and pulls out the chicken salad she’d made. 

“I’m starving. How do you go this long without eating everyday?” 

She turns to find him leaning in the doorway. 

_ He’s lucky he’s big and good-looking _ , she thinks bitterly. _ Must have gotten him far in life. Probably from a rich family, too. _

She reaches into the fridge and finds his sandwich. She throws it squarely at his chest, but to her profound disappointment he catches it deftly. 

“Practice,” she finally answers his question bitterly. “Years of practice.” 

“You couldn’t pay me enough money--”

“ _ Apparently you can because you are standing right here _ .” She lobs the comment at him with a sharp voice, cutting him off. 

He frowns.  _ Again _ . The sourest of sourpusses. 

She turns away from him. Waiting for her laptop to boot up, she opens her chicken salad and starts shoveling forkfuls into her mouth, not caring that he’s watching. 

“What are you doing?”

“Working.”

“On what?”

She rolls her eyes at him. “Is this Ben asking or the FBI?”

“Maybe it’s both.”

She looks at him long and hard for a moment. “You know I went to college to do this, right? To learn to do this job?”

He gives a half-nod, half-shrug. “Okay, and?”

“Do you think I spent four years learning how to read a book out loud? Or how to cut apples?”

He doesn’t answer, but his dark eyes are looking into hers. His jaw moves back and forth slightly. 

“This job is not just wiping asses and coloring, Ben—things you apparently think you are above, but I’m not. That is part of caregiving, sure, but this job is also  _ education _ . It may look different than what  _ you _ think of when you think about school, but that’s what is happening here. They are learning. I am teaching.” She tries to keep her voice down, but her whisper is getting angrier and louder. _ Again. _

His face softens slightly, and his mouth opens. 

“Look, Rey, I’m--”

She doesn’t want to hear it. 

“And like any good teacher, I’m overworked and underpaid, and instead of taking a real lunch break, I have some reports to write and lessons to plan.” She turns back to her laptop, hoping the message is clear. 

He stands there for a moment, still looking at her, then finally huffs and walks back into the dim light of the room. 

It takes her a moment to process through her annoyance to focus on the development standards reports, but she pushes through, because she’s a gosh-darn  _ professional, _ and she refuses to let that obtuse tree distract her so much that she has to start, god forbid, working from home again. 

Although with no friends and no excursions allowed, she really doesn’t have much else to do. But still...boundaries.

An hour later, she closes down her laptop and takes a deep breath before picking her way through the cot maze. Jessika is leaning against one of the counters, texting on her phone. She looks up as Rey approaches. Ben is nowhere in sight. 

_ “Where’s Ben?” _ she mouths to Jess. 

Jess gives a quiet snort and smile then points down to Rey’s left. 

Just two more steps and Rey would have tripped over the long legs extending next to the bookshelf. He’s sandwiched next to Beau’s cot, his hand on Beau’s back. 

And he’s totally passed out. 

“ _ What the hel l? _ _”_ Rey is furious.  _ She _ could use the  _ fudging _ nap. 

“Beau started to stir, and Ben sat with him,” Jess whispers to her. “Talked to him for a bit, then started rubbing his back. I think he passed out right after Beau did.” Jess giggles as she looks down at the felled tree. Might as well have yelled ‘timber’ when he went down.

Rey considers him again, a little less furious now. He’s laying on his side, and more than ever he looks like a giant next to Beau, his hand taking up the kid’s whole back. 

In his sleep, his expression is soft--softer than she’s seen on him before, and in the  _ absence _ of the lines and furrows, she sees him clearer. He’s been stressed. Very stressed. But there is a peace somewhere under it. Maybe this is  _ Ben _ , buried under the burdens of Agent Solo, the layers of his anxiety opened like heavy curtains to reveal a clear and bright window behind them. 

She cocks her head a little as she looks, a slow smirk growing on her lips. His dark, long hair has fallen away from his face, revealing a  _ surprisingly _ large ear. How, _ how, HOW,  _ had she never noticed before? Ah, so maybe he wasn't _always_ quite so handsome. She bites her lip a little as she smiles, and in a moment, she understands much more about Ben Solo than he probably wants her to. 

_ Well.  _

_ This explains a lot. _

She’s still annoyed, but a picture of Ben is getting a little clearer, and a tender shoot of empathy is growing in her heart. 

She looks back at Jess and gives a little eye roll. “ _ We _ get the nap next time,” she whispers conspiratorially, gesturing between the two of them. 

Walking to the window, she starts humming a little bit, her usual way of bringing the kids out of their slumber. A couple quick twists and the blinds crack open, more light pooling in the room. Their second part-time assistant, Tallie, is in the prep area, cutting apples for afternoon snack. The plates and cups are already out, and the tables are sparkling despite the mess left from lunch. 

“Wow, looks great in here, Tallie.”

Tallie smiles a wide smile, her bouncy dark blonde ponytail moving as she laughs a little. “I didn’t do it, but I’ll accept your thanks anyway.”

“Really?” Rey scrunches her face in surprise.

“Yeah, it was like that when I came back from lunch.” Tallie shrugs.

“Hmm.” Rey chews her lip.  _ An olive branch _ . It was a start. 

She’s next to Tallie at the counter, arranging sliced apples onto plates when something about the air shifts, and she feels him in the room. 

“Tallie,” Rey holds her gloved hand out to take Tallie’s knife. “I can take over if you can start waking a few of them.” 

“Sure!” Tallie chirps, happily snapping her gloves off. She turns, and Rey hears her sharply inhale and startle a little. 

“Geez! Hey, Ben. Nice nap?” Tallie laughs.

He grunts a little in response to her. He takes Tallie’s place next to Rey, and she feels herself relax a little, unexpectedly. Her anger is gone now, diffused out of her like air through an open window, and replaced with warmth in her chest and the image of one over-large ear in her mind. 

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles where he stands next to her. Leaning his backside against the counter, he grips it with his hands and looks down at his feet. It’s not an enthusiastic apology, but at least it’s an apology. 

Rey sighs but smirks as she continues slicing apples. “It happens to everyone at least once. It’s hard not to crash.”

“No, not that,” he answers abruptly.

She looks up at him, and her heart suddenly lurches at the eye contact. His face makes a sort of half cringe-half smile, and that line is back in his cheek--the line her fingers are itching to trace. 

“Wait. I mean, yes,  _ that _ , too. But I’m sorry for…” He stops talking and just looks at her, staring into her eyes with his dark brown irises as he contemplates something, moving his jaw a little as he does. Heat grows in her chest under his gaze and her throat feels dry and tight. Her eyes are finding the gold again in his irises--the little flecks that are only there if she stares hard enough and long enough. The silence is lengthening, and she hates it, fighting the need to fill it. Something about his gaze makes her feel vulnerable, exposed, unhidden. Like he’s seeing too many parts of her. 

“For what?” she finally asks, cracking under the weight of the uncomfortable tension.  _ God, it’s good they never brought him in for the debrief. _ She would have cracked instantly just from him staring at her across the table. He wouldn’t have had to speak. Just stare. She’d have given out a full recount of the night she tried to dye her own hair, the D she got in general chemistry, and her first time with that boy on the baseball team. She would have dumped it all out. Dumped it all out under those eyes. 

“For diminishing your work. This is...hard. And I’m bad at it.” His mouth is moving like he’s holding something sour on his tongue. 

He runs his hand through his hair, and now she’s looking for a sliver of flesh, a peek of the ears she knows are there. A piece of him that he’s hiding. How much would he dump out under  _ her _ gaze? 

“Thank you,” she says, handing him a plate. 

It’s not enthusiastic, but it’s sincere, and she’ll take it. 

...

At the end of the day, when they are in the courtyard and the kids are getting out the last blasts of energy on the big wooden playground, she hears a quiet but gruff voice near her shoulder.

“How’s the big one doing?”

She looks down to see Maz, her arms crossed and pantsuit just as perfectly pressed as it was this morning,  _ every _ morning, really. Rey follows her gaze to where Ben is sitting, pouting on a bench. Rey presses her lips in a line, and bites the inside of her cheek as she kicks a little at the grass with the toe of her sneaker.

“He just needs time.” Rey doesn’t meet her gaze.

“He’s running out of time from me. When is the woman coming in?” Maz’s face hardly moves as she speaks, expression frosty, tone brusque. 

“I don’t know,” Rey says, feeling her heart sink a little. She didn’t want him to go, and it surprised her. “Mono takes a while, and it’s only been a week.”

Maz is motionless next to her. “Hmph.”

For a long moment, Maz watches Ben. He must feel her gaze, because he looks toward Rey and catches her eye. They both stare at each other for a few seconds, neither moving, neither waving. Rey feels the tension in her own body, shifting on her feet uncomfortably like she’s about to watch a shootout and waiting to see which draws first. Just as abruptly as she appeared, Maz turns and leaves without another word. 

The day ends better than it started. He’s still incompetent, impatient, abrasive. But the apology was a start, enough that she defended him to Maz, though she can hardly believe it. 

And when she feels him there in her dreams that night, nothing but a huge hand on her hip and a hot pant against her neck, she shudders. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Our girl may be pretty, but she doesn't put up with bullshit. 
> 
> I'll admit Rey has been a challenge to write and understand, but I got to a place where this felt acceptable enough to post and move on. 
> 
> How bout we raise the stakes and put the squeeze on Ben in the next chapter? Let's POEke him a little.


	7. Chapter 7

As he puts his coffee down on the counter he sighs, and thank _fuck_ it’s Friday, because he’s teetering on the edge. He checks his watch--only minutes left before the velociraptors start trickling in and the chaos begins, and yet _again_ he thinks about how much he is _exactly_ the wrong man for this op. There’s no way he’s wiping one more ass.

Rey is humming a little to herself as she straightens the books on one of the shelves, bending over to arrange them just so, and he turns quickly back to his coffee before he has a chance to rake his eyes over the curves of her body in her dress and leggings--something he’s realizing is a bit of a uniform for her. Makes more sense now that he’s been deep in the shit himself. Must be easy to bend and squat in that outfit. He chances another look at her from the corner of his eye. 

_Okay, maybe he’ll wipe_ one _more tiny ass for her._

But he’s _not_ going to like it. 

He focuses his gaze on his coffee. Why is this so difficult? This job? _Her?_

Somewhere in his chest, in the hidden corners locked behind tightly joined compartments like a puzzle box, he already _knows_ why. But he’s not ready to open it and look at the why. Maybe he never will be. Because it’s the why that explains how seeing her smile makes him willing to do things he’s made a point to never do. Like wipe tiny asses, for one. And apologize, for another.

Of course, beyond _all of that_ , she’s his witness. And he’s a professional. So the _why_ can’t ever matter. Can’t ever see the light of day.

He’d been pissing her off all week, and he feels a little flare of shame around his collar. Usually he doesn’t mind pissing people off--in fact he often enjoys it. But her anger and annoyance with him made him feel sour inside, uncomfortable and disappointed in himself. And he didn’t like to feel disappointed in himself— it is a feeling he avoids at great pains. People disappoint _him_ , not the other way around.

It shouldn’t matter. Whether or not she likes him shouldn’t matter. Some of his first jobs were witpro. These people come and go. They fade out slowly into the ether as they need the Bureau less and less, until one day you see a stamped file on your desk and strain to remember the face that went with the name.

But _Rey..._

Rey is different from his other witnesses-- _it’s just because she’s not a criminal,_ he tells himself. She’s not in his protection because she knows where a body or a bag of cash is buried, so really it’s fine that her feelings matter to him in a professional way. This is what _real_ rapport with a _normal_ person--not a gun runner or getaway driver or hitman--feels like. _Right?_ It’s completely fine and professional that he wanted to fix things with her. 

It’s absolutely fine that he liked the way she had looked at him when he apologized. The way he had felt a burden relieved when she’d smiled at him. The way she’d been happy with what he’d done for her. 

It was just rapport building when he smiled as she warmly bumped his shoulder on the walk home. Finally touching him again.

They needed to have a good working relationship, so it was fine that she had teased him about always wearing black and playfully rolled her eyes when he indignantly explained that _black conceals a firearm best_. It was fine, definitely fine, the way her smirk showed that she knew it wasn’t the only reason--that she knew some truths about him. That builds trust, right?

It was good that she was interested enough in him that she made a guess at his middle name again before he’d said good night .

_“O’Malley? Seriously, Rey?”_

_“Just got a weird feeling that it’s a family name.” She had shrugged then._

But the _uncanny_ way she saw truths about him...maybe that wasn’t fine. Because that makes him feel...well, whatever it is, it isn’t entirely professional. 

And now he’s talked himself into a circle. He sighs. He should run. He should switch with Phasma as soon as possible. Because this is maybe _not_ fine at all. This is maybe getting…

_Dangerous._

He shakes his head to loosen his thoughts, picking up a bin of magnatiles he knows she’ll want out on the work tables. 

“Hey, Ben. What’s up, man?” comes a voice from the door. 

_Fucking Dameron._ The last thing he needs right now. He’s been creeping around all week, darting in to say hi or waving from the window in the door. Cheerful little shit. He and Storm would be best friends. 

“Hey,” Ben responds tersely to Poe who’s already strutted his way into the room, not waiting for a response to what was now obviously just a courtesy greeting. It’s Friday, so he’s in a NASA t-shirt and jeans instead of his usual button-down, and Ben eyes him suspiciously, about eighty-percent certain he’s here looking for an excuse to lift something heavy for Rey with his exposed arms. 

“Rey, it’s Friday, and I’m bored, so I was going to order lunch today. You want to join me? I’m thinking ramen from this great noodle place over on the Outer Rim. They’ll deliver if we order at least thirty bucks.” _Oh, so he's going to try to get attention with food instead of biceps then._

“Oh yeah, that sounds _amazing!_ Ben, do you want some, too?” she chirps.

He looks over at the pair, trying to keep a smirk off his face as he sees the subtle change in Poe’s expression as Rey looks at Ben with an expectant smile, little dimple in her cheek deepening.

“Sure, yeah, I would _love_ some ramen.” He drags out the answer with near obsequious enthusiasm. 

_Ha. Sucker._

Poe’s lips form a tight line, but he recovers quickly, turning to Rey. “Great. I think our lunch times overlap, and I can get someone to keep an eye on my kids so we can eat in the lounge--Andor owes me anyway. What’s your number? I’ll text you the menu, and you can choose what you want.” 

_Shit_. Ben frowns.

“Oh yeah,” Rey pulls her phone out. “Actually,”--Ben hears her voice quiver a little--“give me yours, and I’ll text you because I don’t have this one memorized.” She bites her lip quickly, then gives a forced laugh. “New...new phone, and I changed my number.”

“Oh, running from some ex?” Poe asks playfully. 

Her features shift rapidly, and Ben recognizes all of it. His body shifts instinctively, but he freezes—he'll make things worse if he draws attention to her. He has to trust her to handle it. Staring hard at her, he waits for a cue to intervene, fury building in him. 

_Fuck Dameron for doing that to her._

She laughs again, and only flashes her eyes toward Ben for a fraction of a second. “Ah...no...I uh...I just never bothered to back the old one up. Lost…lost all my data when I dropped it in the bathtub.” She offers a weak shrug and short laugh. “Definitely learned my lesson about reading in the bath.”

He has to hand it to her—it’s a pretty good recovery. 

Poe smiles, unfazed, and they proceed to exchange numbers. Ben’s own phone buzzes in his pocket.

 **Satine Kryze:** Signs are out for the open house. Sure you don’t want to be there?

The message brings cold to his chest and cotton to his throat. No. He’s very sure he doesn’t want to see that empty house again. Maybe ever. 

**Ben:** I’m sure.

Before he can pocket it, his phone is vibrating again.

 **Phasma:** Confirm with bird on field trip dates and times so we can organize tactical.

He clenches his jaw. He has hated this idea from the start.

Apparently the school makes a fall trip downtown to the Coruscant Science Center every year. And apparently that _includes_ the preschoolers. A total logistical nightmare that is requiring the tactical team to be stationed as a backup on the museum grounds and will likely mean at least one if not more undercover agents in the building. A complicated and unnecessary burden of coordination that he’d planned to _immediately_ put an end too when he took over as agent-in-command. 

Then she’d asked him about it with those big hazel-green eyes. 

And just like fixing the gym CC camera patch so she could run, he’d caved again because apparently somewhere in the last few months—probably in the stacks of bureaucratic forms on his desk—he’d lost his edge. 

_Dangerous._

Poe leaves with only a loose wave to Ben, and within minutes, he’s surrounded by tiny monsters. The kids may as well be caffeinated themselves with the energy they are bringing in that morning. Maybe it’s just Friday. Maybe it’s a full moon. Maybe it’s some fucking karma for the horrible shit he did undercover. They are _all_ _wild_. 

But Queen of all the Wild Things is the Kayminator, who Ben has to pull out of one of the playground trees for the quadrillionth time.

 _“Ah! Mr. Ben!_ ” She shrieks and flails, pigtail buns that are always so perfectly placed each morning already frazzled and loose well before the usual time. 

“Kaydel, _you’ve been told!_ What is your problem? Why do you keep making my life harder?” He snaps at her but she’s already off and running, not even paying attention to him. She _never_ fucking pays attention to him. Unless she’s planning a sneak attack. 

“She’s wild.” He complains when he finds Rey again, buckling a helmet onto another kid teetering precariously on a balance bike. 

“She’s _spirited_.”

“She needs a sedative.”

“No, she needs a channel for it.” Rey sighs. 

“How do you channel _that?”_

“That’s what you’ll have to figure out.” She gestures toward Ben. 

“Me?!” Why does he have to do so much work? Why is her answer always that _he_ needs to figure it out?

“Yeah. She’s taken a liking to you.”

He rolls his eyes. “That’s the last goddamn thing I need.”

Rey huffs at him and walks away.

By some miracle that just nearly makes him believe in a god again-- _but not quite, of course_ \--they manage to get all the vicious little honey badgers asleep in their cots just in time before Poe taps on the window of the door, holding up two white bags with a shit-eating grin on his face. He jerks his head in the direction of the lounge, and Rey and Ben tiptoe out and follow him over. 

Ben hands Poe cash for his meal, because he may be an asshole, but he’s not _that_ kind of asshole, and Poe takes it with a quick thanks. _Rey,_ however, gets waved back dramatically when she tries to pay for her meal, something about ‘ _treating the new person,’_ and the muscles around Ben’s eye’s strain to keep from rolling. And Ben is exactly zero-percent shocked that Poe ignores his presence for the duration of the meal, eyes fixed on Rey. 

He’s clearly _interested_ in her, and Ben is becoming more unsettled. It looks like attraction, but Ben has always been shit at spotting that, in all areas of his life, if he’s being honest. And with Rey, there could be other reasons for interest. Nefarious reasons. Ben watches him as he talks. 

“So what brought you here to Coruscant?” Poe asks Rey after they settle down at a table with their bowls and chopsticks. 

Rey bites the noodles in her mouth and swallows so hard Ben can see her throat move. She doesn’t flash her eyes at him this time, and he’s both relieved and saddened. To do so would create suspicion... 

But he was enjoying feeling needed. 

“Oh, well, nothing in particular.” She shrugs nonchalantly. “I heard about the opening, and I wasn’t loving my current school, so I thought a change might be good. And well, here I am.” She smiles.

“How do you like Coruscant so far?” Poe tilts his head as he swallows a bite of egg.

“It’s great! _So_ much to see,” Rey answers bubbly. 

“Yeah, there really is. Love the big city.” Poe chews then continues speaking between bites. “Lived in Texas for a bit, then New Mexico. The desert is gorgeous, but sometimes the isolation gets to you.”

 _Texas. New Mexico._ Ben files it away. Rey nods, but Ben sees a little line appear then quickly vanish between her brows. _Hmm._

“So what have you seen so far?” Poe clicks his chopsticks together then waves them in the air, gesturing to the city outside the walls of the school. “Are you living close by?”

She nods. “Yeah. An apartment just down the road. Alderaan Park is nice. Love that.”

Ben feels oddly proud as he sits and listens. They are in dangerous territory, but she’s doing well—answering questions without giving details. Cheerful enough but offering tangents and diversions so that the focus keeps flowing, never enough time to settle on a detail. It’s good. 

_Maybe practiced._

“There’s so much to see.” Poe nods, his dark eyes filled with excitement. Ben wants to gag. “Summer is great. It’s a shame you just moved and missed the music festival. It’s down by the river. Great food trucks. Decent music. There’s some good stuff in fall, too. The farmer’s market over in Chandrila is great.”

“Chandrila?” Rey repeats, cocking her head in confusion as she pushes her ramen around in her bowl. 

Ben swallows, the hot noodles carving a searing path down his throat into his chest, where the heat settles heavily.

“Yeah,” Poe scrunches his face a little in consideration. “It’s like...well, it’s like a historic district, I guess. Big old houses. You can park at one of the parks and then walk anywhere from there. Neat shops and restaurants once you get inside.”

“Oh, it sounds cute.” Rey’s eyes light up, and her interest is unfeigned, genuine now. Ben is watching her closely, and the burning in his throat isn’t eased. 

“It _is_ cute.” Poe winces slightly as he pokes at the bowl with his chopsticks. “But a _little_ pretentious. Old houses, so old families, right? But the neighborhood is changing. Some buddies and I might go this weekend if you want to come with us?”

Ben’s eye twitches, and heat flares in his rib cage. _No._ I’ll _take her to Chandrila._

He bristles abruptly and shifts in his seat, appalled at himself, but the other two don’t even notice. _Where the fuck did that come from, Solo?_

“Oh god, that sounds great, but I’m _so_ tired I’ve only got the energy to binge TV and do laundry this weekend.” Rey rubs her forehead with her free hand as she says it, demonstrating her fatigue. “Rain check though.” She clicks her chopsticks playfully at Poe. He smiles. 

Ben’s watch vibrates gently, snapping him out of the deep gaze on Rey’s face as he finds himself imagining her walking down the tree-shaded sidewalks of Chandrila, her blue dress with white flowers rustled gently by the breeze.

 **Ackbar:** Call me. 

_Shit._

“I…uh, I’ve gotta make a call while I’ve got a minute.” He says quickly, standing and running his hand in his hair. “I’ll be back.”

Rey looks up at him with concern on her face. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah.” _Why would she be suspicious?_ He needs to recenter himself. That thought shook him, but it was just a thought. 

_A good thought. A good idea._

_A dangerous idea._ He pushes his chair in loudly and clumsily. “I’ll be back,” he repeats, casting a stare at Poe.

When the door shuts behind him in the empty hallway, he clears his throat and dials the number, but he looks through the window in the door and doesn’t take his eyes off the chestnut hair that falls a few inches down her back. He can see Poe’s profile, so he _could_ watch Poe’s reactions…but he’d rather look at her. 

A curt voice answers quickly. “Director Gial Ackbar.”

“This is Agent Solo, sir.”

Ackbar doesn’t waste time, barking out instructions in a tone that doesn’t invite discussion.

“Solo, a few things. I’ve been getting Phasma’s updates. Not particularly happy, but we knew you weren’t a great fit. Priority now is to just keep Maz satisfied enough so we can keep the arrangement going. If we lose her cooperation, I don’t see many other options besides moving the witness back into a safe house under custody until we come up with a new strategy. Probably permanent witpro.”

“Permanent witpro?” Ben feels his chest deflate. That would mean a _total_ identity change. She’d have to give up this job along with all her qualifications—degrees have names attached, after all. He knows a lot about Rey, maybe not _everything_ , but enough to know that this would devastate her. Through the glass he sees Poe smile, and she shakes her head a little, chestnut waves rippling. 

No, Ben doesn’t like that. 

“That’s what I said, Solo, _permanent witpro._ So keep Maz happy so we can complete this sting and end this. That brings me to the second point...”

Ackbar sighs. “I was hopeful Phasma’s recovery would be faster, but let’s be honest, she is not well enough to replace you. Sleeping about twelve-fourteen hours a day according to Storm. And she’s still refusing to take sick leave— _surprise, surprise, wonder where she gets that from, Solo_ —” Ben rolls his eyes at the apparent blame for his partner’s work ethic. “So she’s staying at the apartment, but you should plan on at least another week as agent-in-command _._ ”

Nothing about this news surprises him, but he still works to suppress a groan. Another week of little wild animals. 

“Third, we need to start creating a visible presence for the witness. We eventually want to draw the remnants of the empire into the sting. I want to wait until we have our third agent back in commission before we put her face on the internet, but there is always a chance that things won’t go according to my timeline. Hell, they _never_ do. You need to start preparing her for all outcomes.”

“Preparing her?”

“I’m assuming you’ve built some rapport with her at this point? Actually,”--he blows out a rough laugh-- “what the hell am I thinking? We’re talking about _you._ Okay, step one, _build rapport_.”

“Sir--“

“Don’t ask me how to do that, Solo. _Figure it out._ Step two, talk through potential vulnerabilities, abduction interventions. Do duress code drills. Signs and countersigns. We’re Code Alpha right now, but you need to be prepared to call Code Whiskey if you see anything. We’re watching Gecko and Armchair--we think they’re the most likely to move and are probably the ones with a contact or two in the Bureau. As soon as she has their attention, we’ll call Whiskey, and we’ll set up more support.”

Ben finally gets a word in. “Sir, I don’t like this. We’re asking her to take on a lot of risk.” 

“She agreed when she signed up for this.”

He frowns though Ackbar can’t see. Yeah, but was it _informed_ consent? Had Rey really understood the possible outcomes? How is she going to take it when Ben tries to explain it to her?

_Okay, Rey, don’t freak out, but we need to practice how to alert an agent on the phone if you are under threat of death and injury and you can’t speak freely._

_Rey, everything is fine, but you can’t approach your door anymore unless you hear these exact—and I mean_ exact _—words._

_Rey, don’t panic, but I need to put you in flex cuffs, so I can show you what to do if you’re ever tied up, and—_

Dammit, that is _not_ where his mind needed to go. 

“Gecko and Armchair are still in Exegol?” He asks, clearing his throat since his voice has cracked a little, trying to focus on something, _anything_ , besides the terrifying, arousing thought of Rey’s slender wrists bound together. He checks the hallway again to make sure it’s still empty.

“As far as we’re aware. You think you would recognize them if they rolled into town?”

“Yes, sir. Unfortunately.” Fuck, he had come back to Coruscant to get away from this shit. Now it was following him here. Correction, it was being _baited_ here. And he’s currently watching the bait’s shoulders shake and hair toss as she laughs with Poe. 

Ben hears the sound of a keyboard tapping in the speaker. “Looks like Gecko is still piloting the same vehicle.” Ackbar continues. “Don’t know if he’ll make a swap, but for now that’s what we got.”

Green Land Rover. Ben would recognize it anywhere. 

“This still feels like unnecessary risk and exposure. The commute is--“

“Look, Solo,” Ackbar cuts him off abruptly. “This is why you _need to prepare her._ If we lay our groundwork it should be _low_ risk. Our goal is always, _always_ to avoid Code Zulu, so that’s why it’s critical that you build rapport and get her prepared to act quickly and follow orders. Do your job well. Stay alert and ready. And we’ll avoid Zulu.”

“She already knows the duress codes and signs and countersigns, so we have a good start.” He rubs his chin a moment. “Sir, can I ask a question?”

“Solo, if it’s how to wipe an ass, I can’t help you.”

“No, I have that handled.” He hears a distant cackle in his ear and ignores the obvious attempt to rile him. “I want your honest assessment. Do you think an abduction attempt is the likeliest scenario?”

Ackbar grows quiet. Finally, a firm answer comes through. 

“Yes. But now that you’re asking, I want to know what you think. Apparently, you’re coming for my job, so let’s hear it.”

Ben’s chest feels heavy and his face goes stony, as images he doesn’t want to consider flash in his mind. But he needs to consider them. He can’t protect her if he’s too emotionally compromised to analyze the situation. And that’s what he’s here to do--protect her. 

“I don’t think they’ll approach the apartment.” He has been assessing this point for a while and is feeling more certain. “They got outsmarted the last time they were on her turf.”

He looks through the window and smirks a little at the chestnut hair in a half-bun. _Yeah, they did._ His clever girl. A blush spreads from his neck to ears, and he clears his throat and continues. 

“So they’ll want to get her in their own space. Somewhere they control. They’ll prep it in advance. Gecko is smart, but Armchair just follows orders. They only kept him around for his hacking abilities--the Emperor _loathed_ him. So Gecko will lead the attempt. Armchair is big enough he could overpower her. Gecko will know she’s valuable alive, but he has his limits. He’s shrewd, but showing up at the witness’s home like he did? _That_ was directed. He wouldn’t have known to do that. He was never high enough to have that much information.” There was only one explanation that Ben could see. 

He presses his lips together. “He’s following orders from some phantom emperor.” 

“Keep going.” Ackbar’s voice is low. 

“That person is probably our mole.”

 _“Bingo.”_ Ackbar is quiet but pleased. Ben draws in a slow breath. Working against idiot minions is easier work. Working against an unknown entity in your own organization with similar training and clearances, who might even see your steps before you take them? A puppet master behind a curtain? That’s a whole different level of shitstorm. 

“Can you bug Gecko?” Ben finally asks. 

“We’ve tried. Finds them every time. Getting too risky to get an agent in and out so often.” 

The answer is obvious. “He finds them because he’s being told.”

“Precisely.” Ackbar answers with resignation. 

“Someone in our office?”

“Possibly. But not necessarily. Could be someone with enough working knowledge and just the right amount of access. Moles usually don’t work directly on the cases they are interfering with. Too obvious. Why do you think Phasma pulled you in? She made sure you were clean first.”

Ben hmms, annoyed at first, but then quickly lost in thought. Anything they plan has a risk of being used against them. Even within their tight group there could be a risk of unintentional exposure. It happens sometimes--just a slip in a conversation, a form that wasn’t shredded fast enough. His mind picks up on a few alternate strategies.

“Can I make some equipment requests?”

“Sure,” Ackbar answers. “What?”

“PIT tags. The minis. Make it three. But we should file it through another agent. Not Wexley. Bump pass them to me. I want to muddy the trail out of the office.”

“We can make that happen."

Ben hears typing again. 

“Alright, Solo, you good?”

“Yes, sir. For now.” Ben presses his lips. Nothing about this was good. 

“Great. Remember: keep Maz happy. Build rapport. Prep witness. I’ll give details on bump pass for PITs. Give it twenty-four hours.”

The line goes abruptly silent as Ackbar hangs up.

Ben looks at Rey through the door window. She’s standing now, carrying her white styrofoam bowl toward the trashcan by the door. Her eyes catch his, and she gives a small smile and wave. 

His stomach swoops as he watches her. She has _no idea_ the forces that are swirling around her, like a little boat at sea ignorant of the black, menacing clouds growing behind it, and suddenly he feels strongly protective of her. Much stronger than he knows he should. 

Things are going to change. Rapidly. 

And the weight of his duty starts to settle on him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's just rapport building, y'all, it's fiiiiiiiiine.
> 
> I can’t wait for some of the upcoming scenes. I hope I can finish them and share them soon.
> 
> Also, you’ll only hear Ackbar and not see him until the very end, but if you want to know now, my image of Ackbar is Andre Braugher. 100% a less deadpan, more cavalier Captain Holt.

**Author's Note:**

> Gee, I wonder how many of these words Ben Solo is going to eat by the end? Toot toot! All aboard the trope train!
> 
> Time to emphasize the *poorly researched and self-indulgent* tag. Everything I know about this stuff I learned from TV, and I'm more interested in developing my storytelling and characterizations than accuracy here. I mean, the source material has space wizards and laser swords, so...
> 
> Also, I told myself I wouldn't post WIPs when I started writing, but maybe this will actually keep me honest and motivated to finish. Looks like about 15(ish?) chapters in my messy outline. We'll see what we end up with. Let's roll those dice.
> 
> ❤️ to AA_Unit who keeps me going.


End file.
